


The Eden Switch

by Tattered_Dreams



Series: The Eden Switch [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, First Person Narrative, Gen, Glader life, Numerous OCs - Freeform, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Canon, Violence, attempted suicide references, bodily injury, canon AU, foregone conclusion, movie-verse canon, present tense narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 112,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tattered_Dreams/pseuds/Tattered_Dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Maze played home and prison to the Gladers for three years before the events of the Maze Runner.</p><p>A novel-length look into the sustainable life in the Glade in the months before Thomas is sent up, told through the eyes of the first girl ever sent there. Why a girl? No one's quite sure - including her. The story spans from her arrival to the day of their escape filling in the gaps with the daily routines, tasks, troubles and laughs.</p><p>Or, a glimpse of life in the Glade before Thomas screws it up. At times funny, at other times...really not.</p><p>-Story already fully written: Just needs posting. Initially written as a concept exploration-<br/>-Please read notes at the start of chapter 1. They will help your understanding of the story-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> I realise you probably clicked on this link because you want to read the story, but to help your own understanding and appreciation of it, please take a minute to read these notes.
> 
> ...
> 
> 1\. I've not read the Maze Runner books. I plan to, but as books are almost always better than movies, I want to see the movies first. So, this story is very based on the movie-verse version of events. If you haven't seen the movie, some things will probably not make a whole lot of sense for you.
> 
> 2\. That said, I have used information from the Book (learned through research and the Maze Runner Wiki) to fill in gaps and expand. So the end result is a bit of a fusion of both worlds, but more heavily ties into the movie's canon.
> 
> 3\. All the names used, other than that of the protagonist, are either characters existing in the books (found on the Wiki), or from the Glader name wall, seen in the movie. None are names I've just invented for the heck of it.
> 
> 4\. Some elements of it are not based on information from the book or movie, but on my own theories and conjecture. I've done this where I've had to fill in gaps for myself to explain things or make the world richer. These theories are mine and I will try to highlight them at the end of chapters where they appear.
> 
> 5\. The main purpose was to explore Glader life and how it could have been a sustainable thing, in the years and months before Thomas arrived. I wanted to look at the Glade as a community before it was abandoned. For that reason, the story begins months before the events of the book or movie.
> 
> 6\. Following on from that, due to it being a look into the same world, and following the events of the Movie eventually, some things are a foregone conclusion - events, attacks, deaths and so on. Some will hopefully be new and surprising for you.
> 
> On that note - there are character deaths (though whether you'd consider them major, I can't really say), there will be violence which I don't always gloss over (Grievers; need I say more?), and there will be conversations/mentions around attempted suicide (you probably know who). I will do my best to put warnings in the notes heading the relevant chapters.
> 
> 7\. I've already written this entire story. Its long. Its basically a full novel. Its finished, and it just needs posting, so updates should be regular.
> 
> 8\. I've not read much Maze Runner fanfiction at all. I've read drabbles on Tumblr and maybe the first couple of chapters of one or two fics on ff.net. Mostly I just got too absorbed into writing my own to read anyone else's. So any similarities you see are coincidental and not intended by any means.
> 
> 9\. There is a relationship that develops over the course of the story, but it is not intended as the focus. The focus was the world building and concept of life within the Maze as a long term thing (as mentioned above), though it is a character driven plot within that.
> 
> 10\. As it's a complete story, I cannot (and generally wouldn't) take on ideas and suggestions from you - the readers - about future events. However, I would love you to share your theories and hopes for unfolding chapters as I post and all feedback is greatly appreciated.
> 
> 11\. The title probably won't make too much sense for a little while. Feel free to speculate or mentally throw things at me.
> 
> Lastly,
> 
> This is not the first 'Girl in the Glade' plot, nor the first to feature this particular relationship, and it will not be the last, either. I wrote it primarily for myself as a world building exercise (that got wildly out of hand) that is very much character driven and it is what it is. If its not your thing, that's fine, but I'm happy with how I've developed the reasoning behind it and I hope some of you will enjoy seeing it through.
> 
> Thank you if you took the time to read this. Enjoy the story :)

**Chapter 1 - Waking Up**

 

Everything is black.

  
I feel like I’ve been drowning; my lungs straining, hacking coughs clawing up my throat and the memory of too much water pressing into my mouth as I screamed.

 

But there is no water.

 

Just an iron grill and a floor moving far too fast.

 

The electric whirr begins to build, and then cold blue strobe lights are flashing past, from above, until they’re left far, far below.

 

I’m moving up.

 

The lights race faster; I feel the world lurch, along with my stomach. I grip the floor of my prison, fingers curled through the grill, looking for stability that isn’t there.

 

And then I’m thrown into a corner. The box has stopped without warning.

 

My fingers feel numb from my tight grip on the metal and my body feels numb with the blank space that was the lost memory of drowning.

 

The shadows of the metalwork box are thrown under a green light. An alarm blares from somewhere above the rusted red panels that form a ceiling. In the glow of it, I can see barrels and boxes; crates and tins.

 

W.C.K.D

 

Whatever that is, it doesn’t help the shaking feeling that’s taken root in my chest.

 

There’s a rustling beside me.

 

I move a burlap sack from a crate, only to see a white goose shuffling around inside.

 

I drop the sack again. A sob; half shock, half fear, traps in my throat. A tiny, tiny part of me wonders if this would be funny, if I were anywhere, anyone else.

 

On the other side of me, a tin has cracked open with the force of the stop. Inside, a tiny knife shines green. It’s no longer than the palm of my hand, with a roughly whittled wooden handle. My fingers curl around it.

 

My vision blows out into brilliant white nothing.

 

…

 

It just takes a moment.

 

My eyes adjust to a blinding sun, high above and the ring of figures that crowd the opening above my cell – only silhouettes in the light.

 

Their voices are a jumble of strange words and phrases, jeers and laughs mixed with an odd feeling of bitterness.

 

“New Greenie!”

 

“Get Alby!”

 

“See what’s for supper tonight, Lads!”

 

The knife handle is clenched so tightly between my fingers that my nails dig into my palm and I feel the sting.

 

“Whoa,” one of them says, silencing the rest. His voice – it is a he; they all seem to be male – rings with shock. “Find Alby. Now. It’s a girl.”

 

My heart pounds.

 

Two of them reach in and pull open the top of my prison.

 

They seem to hesitate.

 

One of them stands to the front, stance wide. He has a stocky, powerful build, his light brown hair kept very short and his face fixed into an unyielding expression that makes the arch of his eyebrows all that more prominent. He shakes out his arm. It’s a twitch that comes before action.

 

As he jumps down to me, feet first, I’m already moving.

 

I don’t know how I know to do it, but I’m yanking the sack from the crate beside me and tossing it at the boy. Its only surprise that makes him stumble away; he’s built too powerfully for it to be anything else.

 

As the sack moves, the goose inside hisses. I jam the tiny blade in my hand into the side of the crate and lever it against the rusted hinge.

 

The side breaks apart and the goose charges out. Its wings – bright white as the sky above spread in the cage and it makes its wild bid for freedom.

 

The boys above yell in shock, most of them rearing backwards.

 

I grip the side of the cage and jump off the broken crate until I’m standing on solid ground again.

 

A black boy with short-kept hair is wearing an apron made of sewn together leathers over muddied clothes. He holds aloft a wooden spoon. “Get that bird!”

 

Some of the boys turn for it, already in pursuit like it was their last meal.

 

Before I can make a break for freedom, another boy is there, blocking my path.

 

This one is an opposite of the boy I sacked in almost every way. He has a thin, wiry build, is taller by a few inches with a mop of honey blonde hair and dark brown eyes. His expression is a genuine one of wary sympathy, though his eyes are firm. They tell me that he will use the short sword he’s pulling from the sheath on his back if he thinks he has to.

 

I move again, without consciously knowing what I’m doing. I raise my elbow and use my forearm, ramming it into his wrist. He’s stronger than he looks, but surprise makes his grip loosen and the sword stays sheathed as he is knocked back a step.

 

In the confusion of the escaping goose – which was a plan I hadn’t planned – no one is fast enough to see him stumble and me shoot out of the gap it has made between him and the boy in the apron.

 

I run.

 

Everything inside me is numb and shaking and blank but I know how to do this.

 

It’s a flat out sprint and as it starts to burn, it feels like I’m breathing air properly for the first time.

 

There’s a wall.

 

Worry about that later. Keep running.

 

I can hear the laughs, the yells and the jeers behind me, growing ever fainter. I can hear the thunder of at least five pairs of feet following me.

 

The field is long and open; green and grassy right up to where it meets the towering mass of stone. Huts and other hand-crafted buildings have been made from natural resources, and they stand in small groups at the edge of a dense wood.

 

_Woods are safe._

I don’t know where the thought comes from. Some kind of echo of a memory that I don’t have or that wasn’t mine, but I listen anyway.

 

I veer off course, leap over an abandoned fire pit and find myself in the more comforting shadow of a leaf canopy.

 

The calls from the boys are muffled now. There are still footsteps in pursuit, but further back. And only three sets, if I’m thinking right.

 

No one can run forever. I stop on the spot, dust kicking up under the scuffed sneakers I realise I’m wearing, and I cast my eyes around. The knife is still gripped tight in my hand.

 

The ground is uneven, run through all over with thick, twisted tree roots, trickling streams of water and arranged stacks of pre-cut branches and twigs.

 

“This way!” Someone behind me yells.

 

I look around.

 

The person closest is still running; more of a jogging pace than a sprint. And though they’re heading in my direction, I can tell from the way their eyes flit side to side that they can’t actually see me yet.

 

Best to keep it that way.

 

I move again, cross a stream and snatch a branch that’s been whittled into a small spike from a stack between some roots.

 

I run at a tree and reach up to grab at the lowest branches.

 

Somehow, this comes naturally, too.

 

I manoeuvre as high as I can, quickly. The knife in my hand scratches at my wrist and the bark on the spike in my other makes my palm sore.

 

The woodland floor below cracks and rustles.

 

Two people jog into the space below my tree.

 

One of them is a stranger; somewhat scrawny with dark hair and in a pair of shorts that probably used to be a nice blue colour. The second boy is wearing a thin white hooded sweater with a leather sword guard strapped to his back, his hair a mess of blonde across his forehead.

 

I freeze in the branches.

 

I recognise the wiry frame and blonde hair as belonging to the boy I pushed aside. He’s probably not all that happy, I decide.

 

“I’ll look this way,” the stranger in the shorts says.

 

“While she’s in the wood not much can go wrong,” the taller boy says. I find I’m surprised that he has a distinctly British accent. “So long as someone’s watching the Doors.”

 

I frown.

 

_What doors?_

 

Shorts leaves, now just walking, stumbling a little over the ground in a way that makes me think he’s not used to running across a field after someone.

 

And it’s at this rather odd moment that I realise the numbing emptiness inside me goes far beyond my shock in the last fifteen minutes.

 

I can’t remember my own name.

 

The other boy below me turns and walks in another direction. He picks his way around with more surety, but I can see a slight limp in his stride.

 

Old injury?

 

I sink into my spot, back against the trunk and legs either side of a branch. I let the tension rush out of me. I’m shaking.

 

There’s nothing in my mind, but it’s on overload anyway. How did I end up here? Why did I end up here? Why are all the others boys? Who am I? Who did I used to be? How can I know how to run and climb but not know how old I am?

 

I feel a burning behind my eyes, and the warm path down my cheek as a tear falls. I press my eyes closed and suck in a breath. I bite back the aching emptiness and swipe away the tear.

 

I will not cry. Not now. Not for this.

 

I refocus.

 

My fingers and arms are scratched from the hasty climb. I realise I’m wearing some kind of thin sweater, and I can see the grazes up to nearly my elbows when I peel back the loose sleeves. There’s a band around my left wrist; a snug fit. I pull at it and it snaps back. Elastic. The sneakers I realised I wore earlier are grey, and I’m wearing jeans that fall over the tops of them, the ends fraying and the knees worn pale.

 

I don’t remember the clothes, but I don’t remember anything, so it doesn’t really say much.

 

I reach up to the back of my neck and pull around my hair. It’s chocolate brown; longer than my shoulders by a good handful of inches and in a bit of a tangle, which doesn’t surprise me. There’s a leaf and a couple of tiny twigs caught in it.

 

“…know you’re scared…not here to hurt…”

 

I tense again, pull my legs up and curl around the trunk. The voice came from below, but somewhere off a little. It’s muffled by distance and leaves and I can only pick out parts as the voice’s owner wanders closer.

 

This boy is older than the others. His skin is dark, head bald and he wears a worn shirt with long sleeves. A pendant on a leather cord hangs from his neck. His voice is low and gruff but honest.

 

He works his way closer to my hiding place, not looking up, but looking around him, as though I might be hiding under a root.

 

A stupid place to be if who knew how many boys were all looking for you.

 

“Hey Alby!”

 

He stops, and so does his monologue of assurances.

 

The boy with the sword on his back jogs up, shaking his blonde mop of hair.

 

“Newt,” Alby greets.

 

“No sign,” he reports.

 

I wonder if hysteria is starting to set in as I hold in the urge to snort and say ‘no shit’.

 

“Billy’s been stood by the doors since she came up. She hasn’t showed up again so at least we know she hasn’t left the Glade.”

 

Alby nods.

 

Newt claps him on the shoulder. “Minho and Ben are back,” he continues. “They’ve gone to Runner’s Lodge and then they’re going to help search.”

 

“What about the goose?” Alby asks.

 

I raise an eyebrow. It seems like an odd question to me, but then again – what do I know?

 

“Frypan and the guys got it. They’ve shut it in by the goats. He wasn’t too happy that we might not get a nice dinner.”

 

Alby cracks a smile at this, and it seems out of place, like something he doesn’t do too often. “She let it out?”

 

Newt shrugs, a smile crossing his features and it looks more natural on him. “Yeah. Jammed something in the side of the crate and broke it out. Used it as a distraction.”

 

“Does she know anything? Did anyone talk to her?”

 

“There wasn’t really time,” Newt admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Gally jumped down to her and she just threw a sack at him, set the goose free and jumped out. I tried to block her and she knocked me to the side. Took off in a dead sprint and then veered right for this part of the woods. No one’s seen her since.”

 

“And you’ve looked everywhere?”

 

“I searched that way a bit,” Newt indicates where Alby’s come from with a jerk of his head. “Headed back across the field and got some of the others positioned. I’ve just come back from the Doors.”

 

It’s at this point that another boy shows up, jogging up to the pair of them and shaking his head. His skin is darker, too, curly black hair in a shock at the top of his head and thin frame supporting a satchel.

 

“Been all around the huts,” he says. “Nothing.”

 

Alby’s jaw flexes. “We’ll have to find her before dark. The Glade’s not that big.”

 

Newt sighs. “It’s not long until sundown. We just need to watch the doors, make sure she doesn’t get stuck out there. Think about it, Alby; we’re probably scarier for her than being alone in this place.”

 

“We have our laws,” Alby answers firmly. “No one harms another Glader. It’s safer with us.”

 

“But she doesn’t know that,” Newt returns, somewhat gently.

 

I grip the knife in my hand.

 

My life is a blank slate. All of it. I have nothing to lose. And the worst that can happen to me is death. The sharp edge of the blade rests against the scratched skin on my inner wrist. I’ll make _sure_ that the worst thing that can happen to me is death.

 

And when Newt throws his head up, with something like amused exasperation at his friend, and his eyes catch mine, I don’t look away.

 

He freezes. I force myself to breathe steadily out. My heart pounds against my ribs enough to hurt.

 

“Or…maybe she does,” Newt says, his voice cracking.

 

Alby frowns at him, looking around. Newt nudges him and nods upwards, eyes still fixed on me.

 

Alby spots me between the branches.

 

“Jeff, tell the others,” Alby says quietly.

 

Jeff - the boy with the satchel - nods and hurries away throwing me one worried look.

 

Alby holds up his hands and moves forwards.

 

“We’re not going to hurt y-“

 

I don’t consciously think about it. I grab the nearest branch with one hand, the knife pressing into it, and my other arm swings. The whittled spike I took from the woodland floor flies through the branches and misses Alby’s shoulder by less than a foot, cracking into the tree behind him and bouncing down.

 

He stops on the spot and Newt’s eyes dart between us.

 

My voice comes out with a kind of hoarseness that I think means I haven’t used it for a while. Maybe my not-memory of drowning has something to do with that.

 

“Stay away.”

 

“Can’t do that,” Alby says without missing a beat. “Let’s start with something simple, okay? I’m Alby. I’m a friend. This is my buddy, Newt. Do you remember your name? Anything about yourself?”

 

_No._

 

“I remember how to throw a knife,” I say, half seriously. “And how to climb trees.”

 

I swear that I see Newt crack a smile for a moment.

 

I’m not even sure that I know how to do those things; I don’t have memories of them…but somehow I’ve done it anyway.

 

Reflex or muscle memory, I assume.

 

But where did I come from that these were necessary skills?

 

“Okay,” Alby says slowly. Apparently he’s only going to focus on the positive right now. “Okay, that’s a start. You’ll get your name back in a day or so. Everyone does. Everyone here has gone through the same as you.”

 

I doubt that a little bit, but I don’t say so.

 

“We have three rules here,” Alby continues. “You do your part; there are jobs for everyone and something will fit. You never hurt another Glader – and they’ll never hurt you. And you never go beyond the wall.”

 

 _And if I disagree?_ I want to ask, but again, I stay silent.

 

There’s running footsteps and more boys appear through the trees, stopping a small distance from Newt. I recognise one of them instantly as the boy I threw a sack at.

 

His expression is fixed in a more hostile way, eyes fiercely cold as he folds his arms and looks up at me.

 

The knife in my hand presses into the grazed skin and I hiss quietly. I force myself to loosen my grip. Just a fraction.

 

“You know we’ve been looking everywhere for her,” he says, voice twisted with dark frustration. “I say we throw her in the Pit.”

 

“Gally,” one of the other boys warns him. “Come on, Man. Shuck off.”

 

This boy is Asian; his eyes upturned slightly, skin olive-toned and hair jutting forwards above his brow. He looks like a person who would smile easily, were he anywhere else.

 

“What’s beyond the wall?” I ask.

 

There are a lot of questions in my head, but this is the one that makes it out first.

 

The one called Gally throws up his hands and turns away, like he’s just done with the whole situation. The Asian boy shoots a quick look at Newt, but his eyes drop to the floor and he stays quiet.

 

“You can’t watch me forever,” I say.

 

“A maze,” Newt says. Alby shoots him a look, but Newt just stares back at him a moment before he continues, “The Glade is in the middle of it, and every night, the doors close until morning. If you get stuck out, you don’t come back.”

 

He’s not saying it to scare me. I know that. And yet, it’s not the full story. I nod.

 

_I’ll play by your rules for now._

Alby turns back to the group. “Okay, guys, everyone back to Homestead. Time for the bonfire. We’ll catch up.”

 

Looks are shared, there’s a few mutterings, but everyone turns and leaves.

 

Only Alby remains, still standing where he froze when I threw a stick at him.

 

“So…think you can come down?” he asks. “I’ll show you around, get you settled. I know it’s not easy, but everyone here only has each other. You’ll find a place with us. You’re only a Greenie for a month.”

 

I hesitate.

 

He’s probably twice my size, at an estimate, and despite the fact that no one seems to realise I have the knife, I know it won’t do much good after the initial surprise. But despite that, I feel like I can trust what he says; that I won’t be harmed, that being so lost inside your own mind is not new to anyone here.

 

I let out a breath and quietly slide the knife into the elastic band on my wrist. It will stay there, safe. I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my aching hands and slowly move off of my branch.

 

Alby stays still as I navigate down, more carefully than how I climbed, until I swing from the lowest branch and land on the floor with a thud.

 

My arms ache, my legs feel shaky, my stomach is churning and my mind echoes with everything that I don’t remember.

 

Alby holds out an arm, gesturing off to the side. “Come on.”

 

And he starts walking first.

 

I consider turning and leaving, but it’s fleeting. I follow him from the wood.

 


	2. The One thing you Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a bonfire and an attempt at gardening.

Alby starts as soon as we’re clear of the trees.

 

He walks around the Glade, pointing out the various places they’ve established for themselves, and the people we come across. He keeps up a running commentary, needing no input from me.

 

“Over there’s the Homestead. That’s the centre of civilisation here; all the huts, the mess, the kitchen, the stores…over there you can see the Council Hall – we built that right into the corner. All big decisions are made there, problems, issues, things that need consideration. That there’s Zart. He’s Keeper of the Track Hoes – the Gardens. Over there’s the Lookout Tree. One of the earliest builds; did it with just a handful of the boys you see now. And that’s the Infirmary. Our Medi Tent. Clint and Jeff are the Med-Jacks. You saw Jeff earlier. Good at patching up the rest of us…”

 

He continues.

 

I try to put the images to the names he gives. The kitchen is a wide hut with a low roof and an open doorway. The Council Hall is a fan shape in the corner with a tunnel entrance. The mess is the largest; some kind of gathering hall with a coned roof of sticks and hay. The hammock huts where everyone sleeps all range in build and size. The Lookout Tree is a dead one with thick boughs reaching out a little way before they’ve been broken off. A rope ladder sways next to the trunk, secured at the bottom and tethered to a platform of wooden beams at the very top. The Medi Tent has a slanted roof and a panel outside the door to block a draft.

 

We walk around the field and back through the tree line towards Homestead before Alby stops and really looks at me.

 

I gaze back at him, unflinching, but deliberate about the space I keep between us.

 

“So this is it. Home. Supper’s probably waiting now; you gotta be hungry.”

 

“Thanks,” I say, quietly. “But I can’t. I just…need to be…”

 

_Alone. Leave me alone. Please_.

 

“Alright, fine,” Alby says. “You stay inside the wall, understand?”

 

I nod, already backing away.

 

I see him shake his head and duck into the nearest hut – one that looks like the largest.

 

I turn and run.

 

But I’m not headed for the doors; ones that stand open onto a long, shadowed tunnel of yet more ivy-covered stone.

 

I run for the box that brought me here.

 

It still sits as I left it, maybe hours before – I can’t tell how much time has really passed.

 

There’s goose feathers in the grass at the edge, and some in the bottom of the cage. Most of the barrels and other supplies are gone; they’ve been collected by the other boys.

 

I drop into it.

 

The metal clangs at the impact; groaning quietly as I sink down, trying to see something, anything in the gloom below.

 

This tunnel brought me here. Like an offering. The strobe lights that line the subterranean walls are dark. Everything is black.

 

I pick up a goose feather and feed it through the grill. I let go.

 

It drifts aimlessly, turning over and over as it falls. It gets smaller and darker and then it’s swallowed entirely by the nothing below.

 

Much as I may want it, this is no way back out.

 

I climb from the box again, only to find that the sky has dimmed. The brilliant sun has fallen behind the towering wall and shadows blanket the Glade.

 

From the doors, a loud groaning sound erupts. It sounds like the grate of rock and the turn of rusted gears combined with something living and animalistic.

 

The doors slowly move to press together. Inside the Glade, everything is quiet but for the low hum of voices and energy in the Homestead. Outside of it, I can hear more groaning noises, like more doors and walls shifting.

 

I leave the box and make my way to the far corner of the Glade.

 

I don’t know who I am, so I at least want to know where I am.

 

I start to run.

 

I sprint from the corner, right across the open field, past the worn earth where the Doors stand, past animal pens and the gathering of huts and past the Lookout Tree until I stop hard on the other side of the Glade.

 

I look back and mentally record the count in my head. Exactly how many strides. I don’t know what drives me to do it, but the emptiness in my head presses more and more with the passing minutes, threatening to suffocate, and if running helps me breathe and memorising numbers gives me something to focus on, I’ll take it.

 

I pivot in my new corner. This time I aim for the next one. I’ll be running around the back of the Homestead and the Medi Tent, into the first line of trees.

 

And I take off.

 

When I stop this time, I have a different number in my head.

_The Glade isn’t square? Or the terrain makes a difference?_

I look behind me; the paths are very much the same across the open grass. I want to be sure, so I turn and head back to where I started.

 

I run the two lengths again. This time I get the same number. Two sides left, leave diagonals for another day, I decide.

 

“Hey, hey, look there’s nowhere to run.”

 

I stop and turn on the spot. My hair goes flying.

 

Newt is standing there. His sword sheath is still strapped to his back, but his hands are spread in an unthreatening gesture. There’s a leather cuff strapped around his right wrist.

 

He approaches carefully, eyes fixed on my face like he’s waiting for me to bolt.

 

I consider it. Ultimately, I decide I need to learn to live with them. And Newt, with what I’ve overheard today, doesn’t seem like a bad start.

 

“I’m not running to escape, I’m running to learn,” I say.

 

He stops, a frown appears between his eyebrows, two parts puzzled, one part surprised.

 

“Sorry for knocking you earlier,” I continue, before he can reply.

 

The frown clears. He definitely looks taken aback for a second before he seems to find himself again. He walks closer, a little easier now.

 

“It’s okay. It’s not easy,” he says. “Trust me, I know”

 

“But the other one? The one I sacked; I don’t think he’ll take it so lightly.” The memory of the other boy both daunts and amuses me.

 

Newt’s mouth lifts into a faint smile that’s gone nearly as fast. “Gally? He takes himself quite seriously. I can’t imagine getting outdone by a girl is something he’ll get over anytime soon. Don’t worry about him. You almost spiked Alby and he still gave you the tour.”

 

I nod slowly.

 

“I’m Newt,” he continues, stopping some distance away. “You knew that, though.”

 

“Alby mentioned it,” I say.

 

Alby hadn’t said much about Newt at all, really. He had introduced him at the base of the tree, but I hadn’t seen him since, and Alby hadn’t brought him up.

 

Night is truly falling now.

 

The sky is a star-studded blanket of twilight blue and the woods are a silhouette behind the warm, flickering torch lights of the Homestead.

 

“Come on,” Newt encourages, nodding his head to where the group of boys are emerging. They’re all carrying various things with them, from barrels and crates to armfuls of what looks like straw. “Come and meet them.”

 

The words send a shiver of uncertainty up my spine.

 

“I can’t,” I say.

 

Newt, Alby – they are one thing; clearly aware of the mental turmoil of being sent here. But the others; walking straight into the entire community…that’s something else.

 

Newt looks like he’s about to say something, but I don’t want more assurances. I don’t need them.

 

“Look,” I begin. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I am or who any of you are. All I have is this pressing emptiness in my head where I used to be and its suffocating.” I feel my voice crack and quickly swallow. When I continue, I’m glad that I sound steadier. “It’s night time. I heard you say the Doors won’t open until morning. Guard them if you want, but I just…

 

“Just please let me cope with this on my own, okay? You’re right; there’s nowhere for me to go. We all know that, so please…just let me cope.”

 

Newt is silent.

 

It’s the most I’ve said at once – maybe ever, since I remember nothing before the Box and the Goose. But there’s a spark of something like understanding in the brown eyes looking at me that is more of a reassurance than any words have been so far.

 

“Alright,” he says, quietly.

 

Behind him the boys have put together a pyre of some kind; wooden supports and dry hay for kindling. They’re moving around, laughing and holding fire torches.

 

“We’ll be at the bonfire,” Newt says. “Happens every month for the new Greenie. Come and find us, I guess.”

 

I nod again.

 

I’ll have a knot in my neck by morning.

 

Newt leaves, casting one last look at me.

 

I wouldn’t be sure what to make of me, either.

 

…

 

The sky is as black as the wood when I finish running the corners of the Glade. I couldn’t even see a metre in front of me as I sprinted through the trees, but I kept going anyway.

 

The wall is solid, tall and an undeniable prison, even with what look like three more sets of doors on the remaining sides. But that is not why I ran. Good to know the distances during day, but even better to learn them at night.

 

I’m wary as I approach the gathering of huts and the boys celebrating outside them. The fire still burns strong; its flickering golden light casting a little way across the field and throwing long, leaping shadows.

 

The boys laugh and dance about. Some form a circle and wrestle in the centre of it, others sit on logs with jars of glinting amber liquid, using arm gestures to embellish stories.

 

I move around most of them, until I approach the edge of a feast table and I’m spotted.

 

It’s the black boy, still in his leather apron, who sends me a small, friendly smile. He doesn’t call out to the others and I appreciate it.

 

Instead, he holds out a shallow tin dish, with a kind of vegetable broth inside. I smile cautiously back and take it.

 

“I’m Frypan,” he says quietly. “Keeper of the Kitchens. You’ll work with me at some point until you find what best fits you.”

 

All I can do is nod again. I don’t know if I’m any good in a kitchen.

 

“Got any seconds, Fry?”

 

We both turn to look as another boy approaches.

 

He’s got light skin, turned pink by the sun on his cheeks. His short hair is the lightest blonde and he’s wearing a blue-green hooded shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

 

“Just because it’s a Box Feast,” Frypan says. He nods to a huge pewter pot and the boy helps himself.

 

“This is Zart,” Frypan continues.

 

Alby pointed him out some time ago, but I never spoke to him.

 

Zart flicks his spoon in a kind of salute.

 

I cast my eyes around, curiosity slowly starting to take seat against the blank space inside me. The fear still in my chest feels numb, now.

 

“Did someone ask you to take it easy on me?” I ask.

 

Its not that I don’t appreciate the quiet of this conversation, but it is at odds with the heckling from earlier and the general riotous atmosphere of the bonfire celebration.

 

Zart ducks his head. “Newt said to just give you a chance to adjust,” he confesses. “Alby agreed with him.”

 

I cannot see Alby anywhere, but after a moment, I spot Newt across the firepit.

 

He’s sitting back against a log, a jar of the amber drink in hanging from the lazy grip of his fingers as he looks up at me. He smiles.

 

That tiny knot of muted fear in my chest unravels, and it seems to release something a little more significant, but I can’t pinpoint what.

 

I find I’m able to smile tentatively back before I turn to Frypan again and finally dig my spoon into the broth.

 

I wasn’t aware how hungry I am.

 

The three of us stand in an easy silent bubble, just on the edge of the party as Frypan keeps watch of the table and points out more of the boys while Zart and I finish our food.

 

It’s not long before Zart sets down his empty dish. “Right. Well, my turn in the Ring,” he says.

 

Frypan flashes a bright smirk at this, but says nothing.

 

“You want to come and watch?” Zart asks me.

 

I don’t know what the Ring is, but I remind myself that I need to find a place in this world, since I’m clearly not leaving.

 

“Why not?” I ask rhetorically, letting out a breath.

 

I follow him past the fire, feeling a few of the boys look at me, some longer than others. I ignore it as best I can until Zart finds me a space in the circle around a sandy pit.

 

He takes a place inside it, opposite a boy who looks younger, though its clear he does his share of work, based on his strong shoulders.

 

Their wrestling is sloppy, a bit ineffective and underneath the heckling, good natured. The circle cheers them on, no sides taken.

 

“First day, Greenie,” A boy says to my right. “First girl, too. How does it feel?”

 

Maybe it’s me, but it feels like the noise level drops.

 

I turn to look at him. He’s a stranger to me; not pointed out and named by anyone so far. “I don’t know,” I say to him. “How does it feel to be a boy?”

 

A laugh goes up; a few of the boys point at the one I spoke to. Another claps me gently on the shoulder.

 

I flinch internally and think I probably leap clear off the ground, but it never makes it out, which surprises me. I stay, rooted, as someone else pats my shoulder. The internal flinch goes away as soon as it came.

 

The uproar turns away as Zart comes skidding towards us on his stomach, leaving a furrow in the sand.

 

“Whoo! Eric!” The boys cheer.

 

Zart climbs to his feet, brushing away the sand. He gets consoling pats on his back as he stumbles away from the circle. Already another boy has taken his place.

 

“Ah well,” he says, in between picking sand off his tongue. “Worth another go.”

 

I feel another smile break onto my face. It sounds like he doesn’t have much luck.

 

“I’m going to see if I can sneak some more goose,” he says. “Want any?”

 

But when he says goose, all I can picture is the white bird that I set loose hours ago. I figure it’s probably been spit roasted by now, but the thought of it makes me a little queasy.

 

I shake my head. “Thanks, I’m good. I’m just going to…” I gesture aimlessly to the fire.

 

Zart nods, smiles and walks off.

 

I’m left alone, even within the midst of this crowd of brothers, and it feels like the vaguest idea of home.

 

I sink to the ground in front of the fire, close enough that I feel the heat press into my skin. I let my eyes close.

 

It isn’t home.

 

But it’s all I have.

 

…

 

The party winds down after a couple of hours. The goose and Frypan’s broth are both gone, the fire is burned to ash and ember and without its vibrant burn, the night can reach its fingers back in.

 

Alby, having appeared some time earlier to join in, finally stands and calls it a night. He shows me to the back of one of the huts and helps me set up a hammock under a ceiling of woven grasses and twigs.

 

I’m left alone with a torch stabbed into the ground beside my new bed, and it’s not long before I snuff out the flame and lose myself to sleep.

 

…

 

The next day feels daunting all over again, but it’s a more manageable kind of fear.

 

The mechanical doors over the Box I came in are closed tight, and I’m told the Box will have been sent back. The Doors in the huge stone wall stand open in the morning sun, and the fresh smell of the woods has chased away the smoky smells from last night’s bonfire.

 

I spend the day with Zart and the rest of the Track-Hoes in the gardens.

 

I’m sent for fertilizer, taught to manage the stems of the taller-growing vegetables and help to pull up the ripe ones from the furrowed ground. By the end of the day, my fingers are dirty, I got a carrot stuck in the ground, nearly tied myself to a runner bean stem and accidentally cleaved a rhubarb in half.

 

Zart, laughing, tells me I’m just not made for gardening.

 

The evening is a quieter affair than my first.

 

Big Bonfire nights seem to be a Box Day celebration only, and this time we all file into the main Homestead with a new Broth in each of our dishes. I find myself sitting with the gardeners, who take great amusement in telling the next table over about how I lost a carrot.

 

…

 

Its later that same evening, as I’m curled in my hammock, when something comes back to me.

 

It doesn’t feel strong enough to be a memory, but it’s too real to be a nightmare.

 

I can see the cold strobe lights, right above me; a metal board, cold against my back. There’s a pressure in my head. There’s a pair of detached blue eyes. White spots dance in my vision.

 

_Wicked is good._

 

The words echo in my mind.

 

A beeping fills the space around me, and then everything goes black.

 

I tumble out of the hammock and hit the ground. The back of my head hits the solid earth and a pulsing pain bursts behind my eyes.

 

I make a noise that’s half scream, half groan. I’m already curling into a sitting position under my swaying hammock when Alby and Newt appear around the partition of branches. They are the only other two in this hut with me.

 

“Bloody hell,” Newt mutters.

 

“You doing okay?” Alby asks, voice firmer.

 

“Eva,” I say.

 

They share a look as I blink rapidly.

 

The back of my head just aches now; the shock of it is gone and the impact wasn’t too hard. It just jarred one thing from the emptiness.

 

My name.

  
Eva.

 

Alby smiles and it lights up the shadows of the hut.

 

Newt folds his arms, smile more reserved, but just as sincere.

 

…

 

Alby walks me up to a piece of the stone wall, not far from the closed Doors as early as first light.

 

He hands me a bush knife, the blade wickedly sharp and the wooden handle worn smooth with use.

 

The wall is scattered with engravings. A mural of names; the only memories we have.

 

I don’t want to ask about the ones that are etched out. George. Alfred. Nick.

 

A mural and a graveyard.

 

And when I press the knife into the wall, and scar it with three letters – my name – as deep as I can carve it, it feels a little like vengeance and a little like belonging.

 

By breakfast everyone knows my name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Info: The Glade's layout, shapes and placement of the huts and so on are mainly influenced by what you see in the film. Some aspects of it - the Kitchen, Mess Hall and other specific huts I use some creative licence on. I may draw up a simple map at some point if it helps you visualise things.
> 
> Chapter 3 - Teaser
> 
> When the afternoon comes, and they bring a rabbit into the Butchery, I’m having serious issues, though.
> 
> Dan, Keeper of the team, groans when he sees my expression drop.
> 
> But what did he expect?
> 
> \--To be posted at the end of the week--


	3. The Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a rabbit and conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up directly after the end of Chapter 2

That day I wind up with Frypan in the kitchen.

 

The low ceiling keeps it warm, and there’s a hollowed out pit at the back where they keep a fire stoked for cooking. Benches are all around, pans lined up against the walls and a long hand-made table sits in the middle.

 

The cooks are a bit of a hectic bunch, and there’s not as many. They seem to be a bit more serious, which I guess is a good thing, as we’d starve if it weren’t for them.

 

Its only halfway through the day I realise I’m referring to the Gladers as ‘we’ not ‘they’.

 

It doesn’t bother me as much as I expected it to.

 

Frypan calls me by name, not Greenie, and I get a glimpse of what I lost when I didn’t even have that.

 

When we sit for supper, this time outside the Homestead while it’s still a little light, I have managed to burn water, flick a spoon over a pan so hard it whacked a kid called Stan in the back and nearly set fire to a table.

 

Alby drops down beside me as I sit, apologising to Stan yet again, and assures me we’ll find something.

 

I nod. It’s not so bad; at least I’m getting to know everyone this way.

 

…

 

My third full day in the Glade sees me under Gally’s command with the Builders.

 

I’m there for less than two hours and I know it’s not going to go well.

 

The younger boy called Eric from the Box Night wrestling match teaches me different knots, and we slowly construct a simple panel of branches.

 

But I don’t have the upper body strength to support it when it comes time to hoist the thing into place as part of a roof. I can feel my grip sliding on the rope, my hands starting to burn as we lift.

 

And then another pair of hands catch the rope above me, hauling back with a single, easy movement.

 

“I got it.”

 

I look up, surprised to see Newt standing there, smiling lightly. His arm is braced against the weight of the wooden panel on the other end of the rope, and I’m reminded that he was stronger than he looked the first day I ran into him.

 

“Thanks,” I say. Dropping a roof onto the Keeper’s shack and knocking out all the walls is probably not beyond my capabilities, and I really don’t want to tick off Gally more than I have done already.

 

Newt’s smile brightens a fraction. “Twist your hand around it,” he instructs, showing me with his other one.

 

I do as he says, and the weight locks off easier against my wrist than it did through my fingers. He slowly lets go.

 

The panel tilts, but Eric – holding his own rope a little way down – gives me a smile and a nod. Newt stays nearby as we lower the roof into place. As everyone approaches to shuffle it properly and tie it down, he heads over to Gally.

 

They have a brief, whispered conversation before Gally calls out to me.

 

“Alright, Greenie; out of here.”

 

It’s probably as nicely as he could have said it, and I’m a little too relieved to be hurt.

 

Newt tilts his head, and I get the idea. Throwing a hasty ‘thanks’ over my shoulder I follow Newt away from the Builders.

 

“I figured with your track record so far, it was better to get you away from that before you flattened the Village or yourself,” Newt says.

 

I’m surprised at the laugh that bubbles up my throat, but I’m quite pleased I haven’t forgotten how. I can’t deny that he has a point, though, and I shrug.

 

Newt seems amused at this, and he keeps smiling as he leads me across the field to the Medi Tent.

 

It’s cosy inside this hut. There’s partitions made from rows of twigs that separate pallets for the sick and a bay at the back with a workbench, stools and crates upon crates of supplies.

 

“We’re going to try this instead,” he says. “Clint, Jeff – Greenie’s yours.”

 

By supper time I’ve had my own scratches looked at and patched, I’ve practiced bandaging on Jeff’s arm and I’ve reorganised half their stock crate. It’s the least destructive day I’ve had so far, but I’m not certain it’s right.

 

Without any real injuries – which we definitely didn’t want – it could be a slow day. Clint spent a couple of hours helping the Track-Hoes with planting corn while I re-rolled bandages.

 

Clint and Jeff are a riot at supper; telling me stories of who they’ve had to patch up and why in the past. Clint has yet to amputate a Glader, which seems to be his keenest wish.

 

Zart seems disappointed in the lack of catastrophes I’ve caused. Eric stops by just to tell me the roof is on fine and its okay I didn’t stay.

 

I spot Newt with Frypan and he nods at me. I smile back.

 

…

 

Day four has me with the Slicers.

 

I’ve only seen most of them in passing before, but they welcome me in. I fare with the morning well enough; I’m actually interested in seeing the different knives they have; some are tiny – like the one I have concealed in my hammock. Some are long, slender blades, and some are broad cleavers.

 

I think my fascination was unexpected, but it’s well received. I actually enjoy getting to use them on old potatoes for practice. All of them, no matter the shape, somehow feel familiar in my hands.

 

I’m also shown around the livestock pens; there’s well build little units for a couple of goats, ducks and chickens, one more goose, several rabbits and even a wild pig.

 

I’m shown what to do from throwing out food for them to clearing the muck corners. None of it is familiar, but when they leave me with the goats, I feel settled in a way I can’t explain.

 

When the afternoon comes, and they bring a rabbit into the Butchery, I’m having serious issues, though.

 

Dan, Keeper of the team, groans when he sees my expression drop.

 

But what did he expect?

 

It’s a fluffy thing, the mottled colour of earth and thunderclouds with round, liquid eyes and a single white foot.

 

Dan picks it up off the table and drops it in my hands. “I’ll get a chicken,” he says.

 

I can’t help giving him a tiny, grateful smile.

 

I put the rabbit in a woven crate behind the Butcher’s hut and knot a strong piece of twine in the way Eric showed me to keep the lid shut. I’ll hide it later.

 

That evening, we eat just as the sky gets dark. We start a fire in the pit and sit around the logs.

 

I’m half listening to Dan and the others chat when Newt leans down next to me.

 

His brown eyes are golden in the light of the fire.

 

“I’m sure rabbit was meant to be up tonight,” he says.

 

I look back at him, realising too late that I’ve bitten my lip and it’s probably a giveaway.

 

He raises an eyebrow, stands up and walks on without any further comment.

 

But he knows.

 

I decide the Slicers are maybe not for me.

 

…

 

I decide not to hide the rabbit.

 

I’m not naïve enough to think there’s really a happy ending for it, so I leave it back with the other rabbits and go to see it once a day.

 

Other rabbits go missing – I prefer to think of it that way – as time goes on, but the one that looks like storm clouds and earth stays.

 

I do a day with the Sloppers. Most of it is menial tasks, clear up, laundry and so on. There’s only a handful of them; boys who didn’t fit in with any of the other jobs, and nice as they are, I’m easily bored in clearing up Homestead and sweeping the Council Hall.

 

I just hope I can find another place.

 

…

 

I don’t even spend a trial day with the Baggers. Dan explains to me that they mainly guard the Glade, but they also handle the dead, and your friends turning up dead isn’t as uncommon as you’d like, given the situation.

 

If I can’t watch someone put a bunny in a pie, I don’t think I can watch someone bury a friend.

 

Instead, I return to the Medi Tent on day six, when a boy called Lee, who can only be fifteen, nearly takes his hand off with a knife in the Butchery.

 

I’m somewhat surprised to find that the blood doesn’t bother me; just knowing he’s in pain. I’m able to clean the cut and apply a poultice to it, as Jeff shows me, while Clint feeds Lee some nasty looking concoction that will apparently fight infection and help with the pain.

 

Thankfully I was exaggerating a little, and the cut isn’t deep. He’ll live; he’ll even use the hand again just fine.

 

Jeff clasps my shoulder when the boy leaves, and his smile is proud.

 

…

 

It’s just after the break for lunch after I’ve patched up Lee that Frypan tells me the Keepers are meeting in the Council Hall. He gives me a contemplative look and says, “I think you should come along.”

 

I’m not a Keeper, but I don’t question it.

 

I join him as he strides across the field to the fan shaped hut built into the far corner of the Glade. We duck under the main entrance and around the propped open twig-panel door just inside.

 

The stone steps were neatly swept by me just yesterday, and the other Keepers are already gathering around.

 

Gally stands in the pit in the centre, hands braced on his hips, eyebrows making his expression severe. Zart sits on a step, turning a small, rusted trowel over and over in his hands. Clint sits near to him, leant forward with his elbows braced on his knees. Newt is there, too - leaning against one of the branch rails, expression carefully neutral under his mop of honey coloured hair. Alby stands next to him, silent. He seems to generally let the others decide what they want; only stepping in when it looks necessary.

 

All eyes turn up as Frypan leads me in.

 

“What’s she doing here?” Is Gally’s first question.

 

Frypan shrugs, “I think we all know what this meeting is; I think she should hear it.”

 

Gally throws a look at Newt. Newt’s eyes flick up to him, then to Frypan, and Finally on to me, before he says, calmly, “Anyone else?”

 

Zart sends me a quick smile. “I wouldn’t want you discussing my job without me.”

 

Clint nods in agreement.

 

Gally throws a slightly annoyed expression but says nothing when Newt just nods as well.

 

There’s a whole lot of nodding going on in general.

 

Frypan shuffles me towards a step and I sink onto it.

 

We only wait a moment before Tim, Keeper of the Sloppers and Dan, Keeper of the Slicers, both show up and take seats.

 

Dan sends me a friendly smile as he sits beside me.

 

“Right, let’s call this,” Gally says, as Billy finally enters to represent the Baggers, though we know that’s not going to be for me. “Greenie’s done a day with most of you. Anyone feel like she’ll get along okay?”

 

Zart snickers. “Sorry, Evie, but no.”

 

I hold in the laugh and nod. I like the Gardeners well enough, but the job did not go well for me.

 

“I have to agree,” Frypan says.

 

“She’s alright with us,” Clint puts in, nodding at me. “But unless one of you Shanks tries to amputate yourselves, there’s not a lot to do day-to-day with just two of us. There’ll be even less with three.”

 

I’ve heard that word before – Shank. It’s been used around me, but not to me as of yet. Someone told me it was Glader slang; something derogatory, usually. I let the thought pass.

 

“Well, she might have to work up to the actual butchering,” Dan says. “But she’s good with the tools, and the animals. We’re happy to take her, too.”

 

I bite my lip. I appreciate this more than he can know, but I really don’t want to work up to gutting a chicken. I’d much rather never have to do it.

 

“Eva?”

 

I look up, surprised, to see that Newt is giving me an expectant look.

 

“What do you think?”

 

I shoot Dan a brief, apologetic look. “I like working with the animals, but I really don’t think I’ll be working towards skinning a goat anytime soon.”

 

I can’t help a shudder and both Dan and Newt smirk.

 

I’m reminded that they both know about the rabbit I spared from being soup.

 

“I’m thinking not with us,” Gally says, and it comes as no surprise. I’m actually grateful.

 

“We should talk to Minho, too,” Zart says, out of nowhere.

 

The hut goes quiet.

 

Gally’s expression contorts to one of incredulity. Newt’s eyebrows raise and he grips a support post to lever himself upright.

 

Even I look at the Keeper of the Gardens.

 

Zart shrugs. “It’s worth asking. We all saw you bolt out of that Box on your first day. None of us could catch you, and then you hid, too. And I saw you later; just running around the walls like you were doing drills.”

 

Frypan gives an odd sort of shrug at this, and I wonder for the first time how many of them just watched me racing the borders, counting strides.

 

“A Runner?” Gally demands. “Are you insane?”

 

He gives Newt another of those ‘back me up here’ looks, but Newt’s eyes are fixed on the floor, something contemplative flickering in them, and Gally wheels around to Alby instead.

 

Alby takes a breath.

 

“Here’s what we’ll do,” he says, and all the Keepers look at him. He and Newt share a look before his eyes fix on me. “You work with Clint and Jeff. In down time, when there’s not much to do, you work with Dan and the Slicers. You work with the livestock, or you clean the tools if you can’t do the cutting. And we’ll talk to Minho about a trial.”

 

But being a Runner is the one job that no one’s really mentioned to me.

 

I’ve picked up over the last week that beyond the wall is a maze, and it’s not your bog-standard fun-for-an-afternoon kind of one. And I know that the Runners go out there every day, looking for a way out.

 

I figure, based on the name, there’s a lot of running involved.

 

“What is the trial?” I ask, not prepared for everyone to turn and look at me.

 

“We don’t know,” Alby says. “Minho will have to decide. Usually we wouldn’t suggest it like this but…if you’re good at it; we need all the Runners we can get.”

 

His voice is serious, and it puts a hush on the hut. Newt’s eyes drop to the floor and stay there.

 

“Let’s get back to work,” Alby says. He claps Newt on the back as everyone begins to move.

 

Dan nudges me. “See you around, Greenie.”

 

I nod at him. Slowly, everyone leaves the tent.

 

I’m left with Clint and Newt.

 

“I’ll talk to Minho as soon as he’s back,” the latter says. “I’ll find you later. Watch yourself, alright?”

 

“Sure,” I say, quietly.

 

His eyes stay on me for a moment, like he’s uncertain about something, before he finally just leaves without another word.

 

Clint jerks his head towards the door.

 

“Come on, Eva. I’ll get Jeff to teach you about tourniquets today.”

 

…

 

I don’t know Minho very well at all.

 

I see him in the mornings and the evenings, but he’s always in the Maze during the day. And when he is in the Glade, he’s usually with the other Runners – a very small group of just four; Minho, Ben, Doug and Justin – muttering quietly amongst themselves, or walking with Alby or Newt.

 

His smiles don’t seem to appear as often as the other boys, and I assume that has to do with what he sees every day.

 

The sky is dark and supper is finished, the Sloppers cleaning up the dishes when Newt leads Minho towards my space by the fire.

 

“Zart says you might make a good Runner,” Minho says by way of a greeting.

 

I shrug. “I honestly don’t know. It can’t just be running or more of you would do it.”

 

Newt and Minho share a look. They’re obviously the kind of friends who can communicate without words.

 

“You’d be right,” Minho says. “Tomorrow morning, before the Doors open; we’re going to run some practice drills. Across the field and through the Deadheads.”

 

I know by now that Deadheads is their name for the woodland.

 

“And then what?” I ask.

 

Minho says, with gravity, “Then we’ll see. Night.”

 

He stands, claps Newt on the shoulder and heads off for the Runner’s Hammock hut.

 

“What does that mean?” I can’t help asking Newt.

 

He doesn’t speak for a moment; he looks half lost as he just stares into the fire, the flames shining in his eyes. And when he looks at me, his expression is full of that same uncertainty from earlier in the Council Hall.

 

“You don’t want me to join them,” I say.

 

I’m not sure what makes me say it, but I know the minute it actually comes out that it’s true.

 

He curls and flexes his fingers absently for a second, before letting out a breath. “You’re the first girl ever sent here,” he says. “And being a Runner is a dangerous job. I just feel like you would have been put here for a reason; and you doing something to endanger your life so much might mean we never find out what that is if you don’t come back.”

 

I didn’t expect him to say this.

 

I was waiting for ‘because you’re a girl’, ‘because you aren’t fast enough’ or any combination of the two. But what he says is honest, and he’s right.

 

If there’s a reason I’m here, and if I die out in the maze, no one will ever know why. And maybe it’s indulgent to think I’m some kind of key to everything, but some of these boys have been here for almost three years, and any possible answer is something they want to hold onto.

 

“So why not side with Gally?” I ask, eyes still trained on him.

 

I remember the way he stayed quiet, letting everyone have their say; asking me what I thought.

 

If he felt I shouldn’t be a Runner, why not say something? As second in command, if he had, I wouldn’t even be doing a trial tomorrow.

 

“Bloody…” Newt mutters, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. His hair ruffles up. “Because that’s just what I think, but everyone here has a right to choose for themselves. And it’s like Alby said; we need anyone we can get who’s prepared to do it.”

 

“What makes it so hard?” I ask, looking away from him.

 

Newt has always had a very easy way of moving and carrying himself, to me, despite the limp. And since that first day, I’ve always known he’s stronger than his wiry frame would have you believe. But here, in the flickering light of the fire, something about him looks a little bit like shattered glass.

 

“The repetition,” he murmurs, talking to the fire. All the other Gladers seem miles away, even though Stan is the closest, just a couple of metres off. “The dead ends, the minutes counting down. Constantly thinking you’re doing it for nothing; that there is no answer; that one day you won’t make it back.”

 

My throat closes up.

 

My question had half been rhetorical. I figured if any answer came, it would be about the physical exertion, the mental exhaustion…but this answer…its something bone deep; something Newt knows without question or doubt.

 

Something he’s _lived_.

 

“You were a Runner,” I murmur back to him. And as before, I know it’s true as soon as I say it.

 

In the corner of my eye, I see him nod. Just once.

 

Of course, with his build, he’d have been perfect for it – until the limp.

 

“You got injured,” I whisper. Half a question, half a statement.

 

He looks sideways at me, and though he’s what I estimate to be my own age – seventeen or eighteen – his eyes seem younger suddenly, carrying the heavy ghost of something unbearably sad. He doesn’t answer.

 

Without really thinking, I tilt my head onto his shoulder.

 

Sometimes words just don’t work.

 

His thin shirt is flame-warmed, and my hair is almost black against the pale fabric. I feel him looking at me a moment longer, before his head turns back to the fire.

 

The boys around us continue to chatter amongst themselves, but we stay silent until the moon rises above the wall and the fire dies down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 - Teaser
> 
> Gally looks up. He stills for a second before he nods and says, "Greenie."
> 
> I'm still a Greenie until the Box comes up again.
> 
> "I'm sorry about the sack," I say.
> 
> -To be posted Sunday or Monday-


	4. We all are Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an apology and another Box Day

My morning trial starts before the sky is truly light.

Alby isn't around, but Minho, Newt, Dan and Jeff are all gathered outside the Medi Tent where I'm meant to start.

Dan and Jeff are clearly there for moral support. The pair of them stand against the twig-panel wall, giving me quiet cheers of encouragement.

I figure Newt is there in his role as acting leader, but I'm pleasantly surprised when he smiles at me and says a quiet, "Good luck."

I know he doesn't want this for me, so just the fact that he's here is more support than I'd expected.

Minho is ready for a day in the Maze already. He wears his usual clothing; most people just have one or two sets of clothes, a couple of spare shirts at most. His leather brace harness is strapped across his chest, lunch and aid pack tied on the back.

He's brief and straightforward as he lays out the trial.

Across the field, he says. And he puts it in other words, but he means it's a race anyway. Minho is fast – the fastest Runner – and if I can't at least keep within a safe distance, the likelihood of me being able to keep up outside of the Glade is slim.

The running comes easily.

Minho is fast, but as I keep pace, staying right on his tail, I start to register that I'm quite quick, too.

We sprint across the open field, around the cement platform of the Box, past the Gardens and up towards the Bloodhouse.

Minho pulls up by the animal pens on the edge of the woods and I stop next to him.

My heart thunders in my chest; there's a pulsing in my fingers as the blood rushes around. The morning air is sharp as it fills my lungs, but I feel like laughing.

"This way," is all Minho says, before he takes off again.

He sprints straight into the woods.

I follow after him without hesitating.

The twisted roots and leaning branches make this a more difficult run, which was the intention. I have to duck and leap over the uneven terrain.

Oddly, though, much like knowing how to climb a tree, there's something familiar in darting between them from the ground, and I find I like the mental challenge of navigating a path through here more than in the open.

We break out of the trees behind Homestead, running side by side.

We bypass the Slammer and the Keeper's hut, then the rest of the village as boys start to abandon their hammocks for the day.

Minho has pulled ahead again by the time we run up to the Medi Tent.

Newt looks up as we come flying towards them. His expression is more conflicted than Dan or Jeff's, who both cheer as we slow and stop.

I know that Newt half hoped I wouldn't have kept up. A part of me wonders if I'd hoped that, too.

Minho regains his breath quickly. My heart is still beating like it's a tiny bird, hysterical in a cage, but my jagged breathing doesn't take long to even out.

Whoever I was before, I apparently ran a lot.

"She's not bad," Minho says, all back to business, looking at Newt. "Good through the Deadheads. Maybe not yet, but I do think she'll do okay in the Maze."

The look that passes between them is a complicated one, full of things that neither of them has to say aloud to be understood, just like the night before. In it, I can recognise a bond of friendship spanning years.

"Thanks, Minho," Newt says. He casts me a quick look, and then turns his gaze to the other two. "Lets get to Homestead. Breakfast will be up soon."

We walk that way together, and I'm not sure what this means for my future as a Runner, but right now, I'm not sure I want to know.

…

Days pass.

I settle easily into life, in a way I wouldn't have thought possible when I first leapt from the Box.

I still hang out with Dan and the Slicers a fair bit. I'm assured that White-Foot – the rabbit from my first week – is still kicking and they keep me up to date on what happens when I'm with the Med-Jacks.

I spend a lot of time with Clint and Jeff, who are both fun to hang out with, considering the weight on their shoulders. We have a laugh in the Medi tent as we keep everything stocked and ready to use.

Zart and Frypan – though both say I'm a hazard to their workplaces – talk to me regularly, and invite me to sit with them in the evenings.

For our situation, everyone really makes the best of it, and there's still a lot of laughing and fun when we all get together.

Newt is perhaps the most curious of the friends I've made.

He seems to spend his days volleying between the different teams, lending a hand wherever he's needed. He's usually to be spotted with Alby, who follows a similar daily pattern, or with the Runners, when they return for the night.

And despite this, I notice at the beginning of what I think is my third week – time is very fluid here – that he seems to spend a great deal of time with me, too.

We don't always speak, but we may end up sat side by side for lunch or beside the fire after supper, or walking back to the hut together at turn in time.

Newt is friendly. He's a genuinely good guy with a level head and a sense of humour. He also has a bit of a sarcastic streak to match his British accent, but it's easy to see that the Glade has taken a toll on him. Its not just being stuck in it; its also his position as second in command, and knowing all the boys look up to him. I've seen him laugh and joke around, but I've never seen him truly happy in this world.

I don't think I'm truly happy – I don't know if any of the boys are – but I like his presence for what it is regardless.

I think it's through the somewhat unspoken friendship with Newt, that Minho starts to open up to me a bit. He leaves the Runners and joins Newt and I for supper a couple of times, and in the dark, he is less a Runner and more just a teenage boy. Minho cares a lot about everyone, and that weighs on him, doing the job he does, but he wants to enjoy the friends and time he has anyway.

I like him more than I first expected to.

The only person I still make a bit of an effort to avoid is Gally.

Its not that he scares me, or that I don't like him. I don't even think he dislikes me – much. But there's a lingering stiffness there whenever we cross paths.

Which is why, one evening as we eat around the fire – jobs having finished late, as they sometimes do – I leave Jeff and Clint and tentatively sit down on the end of the Log that Gally and some of the other Builders occupy.

Eric smiles at me.

"Eva," he greets.

Gally looks up. He stills for a second before he nods and says, "Greenie."

I'm still a Greenie until the Box comes up again.

"I'm sorry about the sack," I say.

He doesn't say anything, just looks back.

"I'm just…sorry," I continue, wondering if words will help at all. "I figure you don't really like me because I shouldn't be here and I just…you know I didn't have a choice. And you don't have to like me, but I wanted to tell you I was sorry. That's it."

Before I can stand and leave, though, he speaks, turning away from me as he does.

"You're right. I don't think you should be here; but since when has that been our choice? And forget about the sack; everyone's crazy on their first day."

He doesn't say any more. Eric's smile is sympathetic as I finally stand.

But I think I get it.

Gally is a figurehead here; boys look up to him. But he's scared, just like the rest are; only less able to show it.

I don't think he'll ever fully accept me, and that's okay, I realise. It's not about me. It's not even about him.

Its fear at the situation, and that's not something I can fix for him.

I return to my seat by Jeff, and despite living in this prison, something that feels a bit like peace settles in my stomach.

…

Before I know it, I've been here a month.

I'm shutting the goats back in their pen and picking up the three bottles of milk I've collected when the alarm sounds, the noise reaching all the way across the Glade.

"The Box!" Frankie yells from the Butchery.

I quickly tie off the gate and run up to the hut, setting down the milk bottles in the shade behind it. They took one of the geese from the pens earlier, so I know better than to go inside.

As soon as they're set down, I turn and run, pulling ahead of Frankie and aiming for the Box.

Boys pour from all over the Glade and by the time the red doors are lifting out to the sides, there's a circle of us leaning around the opening.

My mind short circuits and I'm taken back to those doors opening above me.

The blinding light.

The too-loud swarm of voices.

The way the space where I used to be hollowed me out from the inside.

White feathers and the green glint on a tiny knife.

Fingers brush against my back and it feels like a kick-start.

I only realise I stopped breathing when I drag in a long gasp of air.

Newt steps up beside me, brow furrowed in concern.

"You alright?" He mouths.

He might have said it aloud, but with everyone talking and the siren going, I can't hear him.

I nod.

He doesn't look convinced, but turns away.

Frypan appears on my other side, smiling brilliantly. "Lets hope it's not a goose this time, eh, Evie?"

I gape at him in surprise for a beat, and then a laugh tears out of me.

Frypan chuckles.

The alarm dies, and Gally reaches down to pull open the grill door.

The usual supplies are stacked in the cage and one of the crates wobbles as something live moves around inside.

There's a boy, lying slightly awkwardly against a barrel, like the abrupt stop threw him there. He looks around sixteen; his skin olive toned and hair cropped short at the sides. His shoulders are still broadening but he's fairly thin. His expression is a mix of utter blankness and fear, an arm held above his eyes to try to block the sun.

"Day one, Greenie," Gally says, seizing the front of his damp, dark red shirt.

The boy is hauled up, onto the grass where he's surrounded by the others.

I stand back, remembering all too clearly how the press of bodies and faces made me feel.

He staggers to his feet, eyes flitting wildly all over and panic setting into his face.

"Where am I? What is this place?" He rattles off. "Why can't I remember anything?"

Looking at the faces of the boys who have become my friends, I can start to see the other side of this. They get asked exactly the same questions every month. They watch everyone find pieces of themselves with each passing day. A Greenie's first day must seem amusing to them after seeing so many.

Thinking of it this way, even my own first day seems a little funny to me. How could I have been so afraid of people like Fry, Zart and Newt?

Better to look back and see the humour than to look back and see the sadness, I guess.

No one should have to forget who they are.

But we have, and we have to cope.

The new Greenie is led to the Slammer at the back of Homestead and shut in. Jackson sticks around to watch him while the rest of us unload the supplies from the Box.

The live animal turns out to be a cockerel, so Dan decides it's more important to keep it alive. With just a handful of chickens left, being able to hatch some more would help just as much as collecting eggs.

Looks like the Box Feast will be a Hog roast instead.

…

His name is Winston.

He's let out of the Pit by noon and Alby walks him around the Glade, just as he did with me, and everyone before me.

He's coping a lot better than I did.

But then, he's not exactly in a minority when it comes to gender.

By the evening, he's already choking down Gally's special Brew and getting accepted into the group as everyone introduces themselves. He's been chanted into the Ring to wrestle against some of the boys and Tim's handed him a welcome pack – hammock, food dish, spoon and other essentials.

The next morning he stubs his foot on a spade and remembers his name.

I wonder, absently, if blunt force trauma is the best way to jar a name from an empty past.

…

Winston settles very quickly in with the Slicers.

He's a natural with a knife and while he can't catch the goats at all and he almost let the chickens loose in his first week, the Butchery seems to be familiar ground.

We agree to disagree on that.

…

With an extra person in the Bloodhouse, I find I have more time to run.

I spend my mornings with Clint and Jeff. I've learned by heart most of their tools and techniques now, and the three of us get along well, even if I sometimes miss the more energetic atmosphere of the Butchery.

The afternoons I help with the animals and work on dead sprints. I'm able to take strides and time off of my first mapped numbers when I race across the field, and through the trees. I find my heart doesn't beat as hard or as fast, and I recover quicker.

With the amount of running I do, I've mapped out almost all the Glade quite quickly. I know the woods lie in a triangular arrangement across one diagonal side of the glade. The Council Hall sits at one corner near the tree-line and the Bloodhouse at the other. Homestead is tucked into the edge not far from the Hall.

And I've run around the walls again, partly to satisfy my curiosity. The Doors that everyone talks about stand on the wall that crosses the open field. But I still recognise three more sets, these ones shut solid and clearly never used, if the amount of creepers, ivy and grass knotted around them are anything to go by.

I'm persistent; mostly for myself. It gives me a kind of freedom that I don't find even in the animal pens, or sitting by the fire at night. But a part of me persists because I can only imagine how difficult it is to really take on this job.

And I can see Newt is concerned, the few times I fly past and he looks up as I go.

The question of why he stopped running; what exactly happened to him, weighs on me sometimes, but I don't want to ask. I remember that fractured look in his eyes from the first time, and I don't want to put it back there.

Despite that, we wind up walking back to the hut alone, almost two weeks into Winston's first month.

The fire has been splashed out, the boys have turned in, and we're on our way to do the same.

"Do you think I can't do it?" I ask. I know he still would rather I _didn't_ , but I've never been sure if he thinks I _can_.

He glances sideways at me. The torch he's holding casts a small pool of amber light around us.

"No," he says. "I think you could, but…I told you its bloody hard, and you'll never really know how much until you actually go out there. But I've seen you; I remember you talking to Gally one night, ages ago. He'd given you no reason to even try – everyone knows he can be bloody stubborn – but you did anyway."

"So?" I ask, unsure where he's going with it.

Newt sighs. We reach the hut, but he sits on the log by the entrance and stakes the torch into the earth. I drop down beside him.

"So," he says, slowly. "The Maze changes a person. Even if you don't actually get stung. Minho doesn't laugh as much as he used to. The boys here, they keep upbeat because this is the only life they know and its not all bad, but the Runners, they've seen what's beyond it. I think…it would be a waste if you lost who you are by going in the Maze."

His words resound in my head; even make me feel a touch of fear. But something inside me steels against it. "I don't think that's totally it," I say.

Newt and I are doing our thing, where we both look ahead while we talk to each other. Sometimes it makes things easier to say.

"Minho didn't lose who he was; he's still that person underneath, but I think that some things make you grow up faster. I think he laughs less because of the responsibility he took on when he became a Runner – it's not because he lost a part of himself to the Maze.

"When we were put here, they took everything – our memories, our pasts, the people we became. But you can't really erase a soul, and I think that some things leave imprints. I know how to climb trees; Winston can already skin a rabbit quicker than Dan. Zart has a green thumb. Our memories are gone, but they couldn't take who we _are_ , so how can the Maze?"

Newt is silent, and when I shoot him a look, his expression is blank.

"Then maybe I was broken before the Maze," he says, very quietly.

I hold my breath, and let it out in a rush.

"What do you mean?"

Abruptly, he shakes his head.

"Nothing. We've got to turn in. Night, Eva."

And, so quickly that I can barely process it, He's stood up and disappeared inside.

By the time I snuff the torch and follow, he's already in his own hammock, pretending to sleep.

I slip behind the partition to my own and curl up.

Something in my chest burns, long after I fall asleep.

…

"We don't talk about it," is all Jeff says, when I ask about Newt's injury.

His expression is closed off, eyes heavy and sad.

Clint doesn't look straight at me and I know there's more to the story.

I let it go. I want Newt to tell me anyway.

But Newt has taken to avoiding me.

I didn't fully realise how much time we'd started spending together until he was no longer there.

He doesn't join us for lunch, and I sit with Frypan and Stan instead. I don't see him anywhere on route to the Gardens when I go to patch up Jack, who almost lopped off his own thumb with a pair of shears. I spot him with Alby mid afternoon, but as soon as he sees me, he's gone.

I spend supper with Dan, Winston and Lee, and join them around the fire as night falls, though it feels a bit empty without Newt or Minho there.

The week continues on, and more than once, someone asks if we had a fight.

I can only reply that I didn't think we did. I'm just not sure what we did have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Oops. Sorry for that ending. But on the plus side, it won't be too long until the next bit!
> 
> Chapter 5 - Teaser
> 
> "Bloody Shank's only gone and stabbed himself," Newt says, not unkindly.
> 
> "He lost his grip on the rabbit," Dan clarifies, as they set him on the table. "It scrabbled around and knocked the cleaver-"
> 
> "If you want me to fix this, shut up about rabbits," I tell him in no uncertain terms.
> 
> -To be posted during the week-


	5. The Choices we Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is history and a Greenie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: References to previously attempted suicide and deaths that occured pre-narrative.
> 
> I don't think anything is severe enough to be a trigger, but if the topics of death and/or attempted suicide bother you, you have been warned. You should be able to see the conversation coming up so you can just scroll to the next scene, but you would be missing some of the backstory.
> 
> See the bottom for my notes on the chapter and the next teaser.

More days pass.

I overhear Frypan telling Newt off as I approach the Kitchen one day – something about being honest and being an idiot. Newt charges out, eyes low and doesn't stop even as he passes me on my way in.

In just a few more days, the Box will come up again.

Finally, I get annoyed.

I don't need him to talk about it, but I hate this.

It rains in the Glade.

Rain doesn't happen often. The rare times it does, everyone packs up for the day and hides out in the huts.

Standing in the Homestead as Fry hands out lunches, I realise Newt is nowhere to be seen.

"In the Council Hall."

I turn to face Alby. He spends so much time helping all over the Glade, mainly with the Baggers and Builders that it feels like I don't see him much. I may not know Alby very well, but it's easy to see that he and Newt are like brothers. When you build a society from nothing under dire circumstances like these, I figure it's impossible not to form lasting friendships.

"Newt," Alby clarifies. He hands me two lunch packs and a firm instruction. "Sort it out."

He walks away.

I'm not sure how exactly I'm meant to fix it; I don't know what went wrong, but trying is better than nothing.

I dart out into the rain and sprint across the field to the Council Hall.

"We're going to need to re-lay the roof," Newt says, as I move around the propped open door. "This one isn't holding too well."

Inside, while mostly dry, the rain drips through the tight web of twigs, leaves and straw in places, staining the ground and creating a trickling rivulet down the steps.

Newt looks up. His expression flickers and he goes back to positioning tin buckets under the drips.

He thought I was Alby.

"Awesome," I say. "So we're really not talking anymore?"

Newt halts. He straightens and then says, "No. Sorry. I just…don't know what to say."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "You…Shuck-head."

I clap my hand over my mouth.

I don't know where the insult comes from at all. It makes Newt stare at me in surprise. A smile tugs at his mouth.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have said that. And I'm sorry if talking about the Maze is a problem for you. I can't ask Minho; I just feel like I can't. And I don't have to ask you, either, but that's why - you've done it before; you've been there-"

"And I don't miss it," Newt says, eyes dimming. "Look, I'm sorry, too, okay? I didn't handle it well, but I just can't talk about this."

Something he said a week ago comes back to me.

_Then maybe I was broken before the Maze._

"We're all broken here," I say quietly. "Dan has a scar he doesn't remember getting. Fry won't cook aubergines but he doesn't know why. I spent an afternoon in a tree and threw a spike at Alby. You're no more broken than we are. But-"

"It wasn't an accident," Newt says over the end of my sentence.

The words have more force than volume, and it seems like it's a confession that has fought its way out of him.

_It's okay. Forget about it; I won't ask again._

These are the words that I have ready on my tongue, but they never make it.

"What?" I ask.

Newt sinks onto one of the steps, his eyes trained on the ground once more. "It wasn't an accident. My foot; the limp."

I sit next to him, just a few inches away, silent.

He lets out a breath, and the story pours out after it.

"I was the third person in the Glade. Alby was first. Nick was second. By the Time Gally got here, we'd already searched the whole glade twice over. The doors looked like the best bet.

"George was next. Five of us, doing what we could to hang on.

"We worked out that the doors closed at night; that walls moved and we could hear these awful sounds from something alive in the maze.

"Minho arrived, and he was the fastest of all of us. We decided we had to start going out. We always travel in pairs at least. At first George, Minho and I went together. It took us months to really map the Narrows – the Inner Circle. Meanwhile, more boys were coming up.

"Alby started putting together a structure for a community. He devised the jobs, tried fitting people to them. We started to make the Glade our own. Our numbers grew, and then Doug joined the Runners.

"We'd be out all day. Leave at sunrise, when they opened, and always be back before sundown.

"George got trapped. None of us saw what got him when night came, but when we went out the next day, we brought back what we could. He's been buried in the Deadheads for three years.

"Nick got stuck out not long after. He wasn't quite right after George. We never found him but we kept running out there – even more careful than before.

"It just got repetitive. Every day we'd keep looking. We worked our way out into the Middle Ring but it was like everything had been forgotten, and us along with it.

"About eighteen months after I got here, I decided I wasn't going to come back. I couldn't handle the same thing, day after day, knowing nothing but my name. I climbed one of the walls in the Narrows and I jumped."

I flinch.

I'm surprised to see Newt's eyes looking glassy. I've never seen him cry. His hands shake as he flexes his fingers in agitation.

"My foot caught in one of the creepers. Threw me against the wall. Broke it. Minho cut me down, and he and Ben dragged me back before nightfall.

"Jeff had to reset the bone. I had a splint on it for a couple of months. Had the limp ever since."

I realise I'm shaking too, as he finally looks up.

His dark eyes swim with trepidation; as if I'll turn away from him for this weakness.

I swallow back my own tears. I can't imagine a world where Newt fell from that wall as he'd planned. "Do you still…want that?"

I'm afraid of the answer.

He shakes his head. "I still feel hopeless some days," he says. "And I never stop hating this place. But I realised in the days after I tried that it was a selfish thing; that it wouldn't help or solve anything. And not being a Runner helps. I can feel like I'm doing something, actually helping by being here. The routine of the Maze was what nearly destroyed me."

Relief rushes through my bloodstream; quick and blazing hot. I don't want to have to wake up each day and rush to check that Newt hasn't tried again. I see how everyone here looks to him – even Gally, who often wants to over-look everyone – and I know it wouldn't be an easy thing to work past, if Newt took his own life.

No wonder no one talks about it.

"That's partly why Minho got so serious," Newt says. "It's his way of blocking out that pressing feeling of never finding an answer. He saw what it did to me."

And with the context behind it, this makes more sense.

My head drops onto his shoulder, as it has many times before. This is the first time that I remember his shirt hasn't been heated by the fire. I can just feel the warmth of his skin seeping through.

The rain sounds louder than before, splattering into the tin buckets around us.

"I won't run unless I have to," I say.

I don't know if this will help at all but Newt's shoulder falls softly as he exhales; tension slipping away. I feel him nod.

The silence settles for a beat, and I'm relieved that we might be okay again, when Newt says, with an odd tone in his voice, "How do you know Dan has a scar?"

Huffing out a laugh, I sit up and hand over one of the lunch packs.

"Here, eat something," I say, instead of answering.

…

Life goes back to the only normal I know.

Three days later, the alarms go off as I'm stacking the food dishes in the kitchens. No one's had a bizarre need to injure themselves today, so I stopped by the Kitchen while Clint and Jeff busied themselves helping out with the laundry.

Stan, Fry and I all run for the Box. Fry wields his spoon again, and this time, when I'm reminded of my arrival, I think of it with a smile.

The boy in the box this time has a wild look in his eyes, and he clambers out of the cage as soon as Gally and Alby open the top.

Frypan gently pushes me back, fingers tight on his spoon, as the boy stands on the grass. Opposite us, Newt's fingers curl around the handle of the machete over his shoulder.

"Day one, Greenie," Gally seems to take great joy in saying, as he pushes the boy towards Billy and Jackson – who Frog march him off to the Slammer.

Alby shows him around hours later and I only see him again as we set up the bonfire.

He looks less panicked, and something more like abrasiveness seems to have taken hold as he's introduced to the others.

"Everyone deals in their own way," Dan says to me, handing me a jar of Gally's Brew. "He's probably not normally a Shank like this."

The Box Feast – with spit roasted chicken this time – is in full swing, and I'm sitting with my back to the fire, watching Frypan and Stan goof around when the boy walks around the log.

"You're a girl," he says.

"Well spotted," I reply, dryly.

Stan laughs. Frypan turns to the feast table and fusses with the dishes, but I know it's for show, and he's watching me.

"How long have you been here, then?"

I remind myself that everyone has to deal with this as best they can. He has no memories, no name and has been thrown into a tight knit group of boys.

"Two months," I say.

I've surprised myself. It feels like longer.

It feels like forever, given there's nothing before.

"Was there a mix up?" the boy asks.

"I don't know, Greenie – do you want to ask them?" As soon as it's out, I wish I hadn't said it quite like that. It's the first time I've used this word – Greenie – to someone's face. And despite my light tone, it feels harsh.

"Sorry," I say, almost immediately. "But no one really knows. I showed up, same as you did."

"Well." Zart appears, dropping onto the grass and leaning back against the log on the boy's other side. His smile is bright in the dim light. "Not exactly the same. Evie here bolted; climbed a tree, had us all searching for a good while."

I shoot him a look that I hope says 'shut your Shuck face' but it probably comes across as 'must you?'

Deciding I don't need to be a part of this conversation, I spot Jeff and Clint about to have a go in the Ring, so I get up and excuse myself to watch.

I spot Newt with Gally, Minho and Dan across the Fire pit and get the strangest feeling he was looking my way just moments before.

With one eye on the wrestling match, I see Frypan and Zart lean in to the Greenie. A moment passes, their words too low to hear or discern at all. The boy nods once. Zart claps him on the back and Fry hands him a piece of chicken.

Fry gives me a solid nod as he turns back to Stan, and I realise they just _had words_.

I can't help smiling, even as Clint slides along in front of me, collecting a mouthful of sand.

I feel like I've got about twenty brothers and this prison feels a little more like home.

…

This boy is called Henry.

He finds out almost two days later, after he's worked with Fry in the kitchens for a full day and with Tim clearing out Homestead first.

He was walking back from the showers when his name just came to him, and surprised him so much he walked right into a hammock and got flipped upside down. At least, that is the way Lee tells it.

One week in and he's placed in with the Builders. He has a knack for knots.

He also says sorry for the odd questions on his first night.

I wonder if someone pushed him to apologise, but I forgive him anyway. He's younger by a couple of years, I think, and he has mellowed out a bit since remembering his name.

None of us have the easiest new start.

The morning after the Box Feast is also the first time someone asks me if I really threw a spike at Alby.

I say yes, all the while wondering how it took this long to come out.

…

My doctoring skills are put to the test one morning after Henry finds his new job. Jeff and Clint are both in the Kitchens when three people stumble around the entrance to the Medi Tent.

Dan and Newt are supporting Frankie between them and his light shirt has a neat slice in it down his side, the edges stained with blood.

"What happened?" I ask in shock.

"Bloody Shank's only gone and stabbed himself," Newt says, not unkindly.

"He lost his grip on the rabbit," Dan clarifies, as they set him on the table. "It scrabbled around and knocked the cleaver-"

"If you want me to fix this, shut up about rabbits," I tell him in no uncertain terms.

Dan smirks, "Its okay, Eva. It wasn't White-Foot."

I throw a bandage at him, and it bounces off his forehead. "Shut. Up. Unravel that."

"Hey, Evie," Frankie says tightly. "Nice place."

I shake my head, smiling. Their humour is what I've always liked about the Slicers. "Can you lift your arms?"

He does as I ask, and I'm quick about pulling off his shirt, seeing the pain he's in. I reach for a jar of Clint's concoction and hand it to him.

"Drink this. All of it. I know it tastes terrible. And stay still."

Frankie grimaces, but downs the gloopy mixture then braces his arms against the edge of the table as I wash out the knife wound in his side. I apply a poultice and take the bandages off of Dan. Frankie stands up and slowly turns so I can bind the dressing on tightly.

"Leave it alone for the day," I tell him. "No moving. Sit in your hammock or see if Zart needs help shelling peas. You'll need to come back tomorrow to get it off; might need a fresh one for a couple of days until it scabs. At least it isn't deep. Clint should look at it, too."

Frankie pats my shoulder and gingerly replaces his ruined shirt. The bandage looks stark white through the tear.

"Thanks, Evie," he says. "I'll head to the Gardens."

Dan pats my shoulder, too, echoing the thanks as he heads back for the Bloodhouse.

I let my breath rush out and its then I realise that Newt is still standing there.

His arms are folded, and he's leaning into the corner of the room, staying out of the way. A smile plays on his lips.

"Feel okay?"

I half laugh. "No. Jeff showed me all this, but what if I've made it worse? Clint's all about amputating but you can't amputate your spleen! Or is it your kidney?"

Newt bursts into laughter.

He laughs much less than most of the other boys, but when he does, he lights up in some inexplicable way.

"You did fine, Evie," he says.

I can't remember him using that nickname before.

I smile, the knot of worry in my chest loosening a little. "Thanks; though I'd be much happier if you'd all stop trying to dice yourselves up."

Newt chuckles, "Noted." There's a pause, and then he asks, "White-Foot?"

I freeze in the process of putting away the rest of the jar of poultice. I give him what can only be a guilty look over my shoulder.

"The rabbit from my Trial week," I mutter, biting down on my lip.

Newt shakes his head. "Bloody insane," he says, half to himself, as he leans up off the wall. "See you at lunch."

And he lets himself out.

…

Sitting outside that evening as the sun goes down and we finish supper, Minho drops down next to Newt, who's sitting beside me.

Boys are still assembling bits of kindling to start the usual fire when it's darker.

"Duck or broth?" I ask to break the silence stretched between us.

It's comfortable, but Minho seems like he has something to say, and asking if he had a rough day is a little pointless.

"Duck," he says, giving me a faint smile. "Fry put a whole handful of potatoes in the broth."

I stab one of the potato lumps in my own dish. "I know," I say. "Starch is good for you."

Newt smirks.

Minho gives the pair of us a withering look, but all too soon, it melts into a serious expression.

"I think Ben's coming down with something," he says.

Newt and I look up, our spoons going still.

"He started coughing a bit as we ran back and I'm taking him supper in a second because he's in his hammock with a bit of a fever."

My mind rushes past everything I've learned about symptoms. "Do you need someone to look at him?"

Minho shakes his head. "Jeff already checked. Gave him Clint's mixture, told him to bundle up and drink lots. He has to go to the Medi Tent in the morning if he's still not right. We think it's just a bug."

"That's good, then," Newt says, but his eyes are dark.

"He can't run tomorrow, Newt," Minho says, quietly.

We all hear what he's really saying.

Minho looks at me.

Newt takes in a controlled breath, "You're ready, Eva." He looks up and nods once. "There's only so much you can do before you just have to try. You're fast. You'll be fine."

Knowing he doesn't want me to do this puts a dampener on it, but at the same time, the fact that it's him telling me I should gives me a certainty that no one else could have.

"I need to talk to you," Newt says to Minho.

Minho doesn't look surprised in the least. "I know," he says.

"I'll be back in a bit," Newt tells me. He puts his dish on the ground where he was sitting and he and Minho walk away, shoulder-to-shoulder.

I'm left alone to watch the sun go down, feeling conflicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO:
> 
> 1\. First, I know Running is made up to be this really heroic thing within the Maze Runner movie, and within what fanfiction I've seen, too. But I really wanted to explore the other side of it. Its not easy. Its physically and mentally draining. People don't always come back. So if it seems like the whole take on being a Runner is more 'oh crap' than 'yay; adventure!' - that's why. I want to explore the more gritty side of it.
> 
> 2\. With regard to Newt and Eva's conversation surrounding his jump and the first people in the Glade. This is an instance where I've used my own theories and creative licence to flesh out what I know. In the Movie, Alby was sent up first. I know Newt, Gally and Minho were early arrivals. I also know George died around the beginning, and that there was a Nick early on, too. But the order of their arrival, and the circumstances of their deaths as Newt tells it is a bit of inventiveness for the plot. Yes, they were both needed like that.
> 
> \---
> 
> Chapter 6 - Teaser
> 
> I haven't recognised anything for a while. In the back of my mind, I'm conscious that it's gone past noon.
> 
> I glance sideways at Minho.
> 
> -To be posted at the end of the Week-


	6. Off the Beaten Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is running. A fair bit of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Situation around a death occuring pre-narrative.
> 
> Things start to get darker towards the end of this one. No 'on screen' deaths yet, but (without giving too much away) we are confronted with the topic of boys having been killed before.

"This should fit," Minho says the next morning.

He hands me a leather brace harness, slightly different to his own. I'm able to quickly work out that it fits across my back with a criss-crossing of straps around my chest to hold it still.

It sits more easily between my shoulder blades over the thin, light green camisole I was sent here in. My sweater rolls and straps in neatly above the buckles that my lunch pack is secured to.

Minho hands me two slightly curved knives, each about a foot in length, which holster into the crossed sheaths built into the brace.

I tie my hair back into a braid, securing it with the elastic I found on my wrist months ago. I've found that I don't like binding my hair back if I can help it, but knotting it up when working with injuries isn't a bad idea, and keeping it out of my eyes for my first day as a Runner is a good one, too.

We're standing at the doors before the sun is up, waiting for them to grind open.

Waiting next to Minho and I, are Doug and Justin; the other two Runners. They're Maze partners like Minho and Ben usually are. Doug is tallest by a few inches and Justin has curly dark hair. Both of them send me encouraging smiles, but it's clear their minds are already locked onto the day ahead.

Frypan is already up and getting breakfast ready. He handed us our rations early so the four of us could leave. Most of the other boys are still in their hammocks.

"Remember the plan?" Minho double checks, as the doors finally let out their groaning noise and begin to crack apart.

I nod.

He's gone over it already.

We won't be mapping anything new today. Minho says they've made enough progress lately to spare one day to help me get a feel for it. So instead, he's going to get me used to the Narrows and show me ways to get to the Middle Ring, as well as give me an idea of what to look for to anticipate changes.

Neither Minho or Newt have said anything to me, but I'm sure this plan has something to do with the conversation they had the night before.

It doesn't bother me enough to question it.

I'm actually happier to be learning about the Maze, rather than blindly following Minho through it.

The Doors stop moving. They're twenty foot deep panels, at least one hundred feet high. They're a warning on their own, without the Maze beyond.

We share a look and sprint through.

…

The Maze is a very different world to the Glade.

It takes me all of fifteen seconds to realise this.

The Glade is an organic oasis from the trees and streams to the home-made huts. Everything beyond radiates with something both degenerated and clinical.

It's manufactured.

Doug and Justin throw us a salute and they race off down another corridor as soon as we reach a fork. We don't cross paths again.

I quickly learn to spot the gear teeth in sections of the walls that means they move – some pivot, others slide out or back. Whole sections open or press together, making new paths and cutting off old ones.

Memorising my route is harder.

I figure it will take several trips with a running partner before I instinctively know the way. Minho acts as my compass.

There is a lot of running.

We follow one path to the Middle Ring, where the cramped corridors of towering stone and ivy open out into long, snake-like open air tunnels. It looks a bit like an abandoned industrial complex. The walls are tall and smoother, seemingly made from massive blocks, with the occasional one missing or crumbled down leaving odd ledges.

As soon as we find the Middle Ring, we turn and run back, approaching the Glade, before Minho leads me down a new path.

He's patient, despite the speed we move at, and he does his best to help me learn cheats and tricks.

We stop in the Narrows to eat our lunch packs.

Minho draws out pieces of the maze in the dust-coated floor as the food settles in our stomachs, and then we're running again.

The afternoon drags on.

Minho says he can only take so much of the Narrows, now that they've explored farther out, and he leads me through a piece of the Middle Ring. He tells me I probably shouldn't tell Newt, which only solidifies my belief that they were talking about me yesterday.

There's an ache all the way up my legs and back as we decide it's finally time to turn back for the day.

Just one day doesn't seem bad at all. It feels freeing; exploring an ever changing playground. When I think of memorising the Maze as Minho has, and being able to just run out, find my way and make it back for supper, my blood rushes with the thrill of it.

But it's all too easy to remember Newt's expression; his limp. And I can see it the other way, too, as we run back through the Narrows.

The sun is dropping and light doesn't fall so easily to the floor, meaning we're moving through tall shadows and half light.

With sundown approaching, the Maze feels more and more sinister. The corridors seem tighter, the walls taller and the ivy more of a trap than an assist.

I can see how doing this for a year straight and never finding a solid answer could get to someone.

…

When we run back through the Doors, there's a gathering waiting for us.

Zart punches the air, beaming. Frankie and Dan both cheer and Stan races off as fast as he can for Homestead. I guess it's his job to spread the news. Eric is sitting in the grass, fingers working on whittling a pile of branches, which he sets down as we appear.

Newt stands behind them, one arm banded across his chest, his other hand rubbing the back of his neck. There's a look of mingled pride and relief on his face as he sees us run into the greeting party.

"How did it go?" Frankie asks me. His side is still bandaged up, and he moves stiffly so he doesn't pull at it but I find it means a lot to me that he wanted to be here.

"Lots of running," I say.

Everyone laughs; even Minho chuckles.

"Did Justin and Doug make it back?" I want to know.

"Nearly ten minutes ago, I'd guess," Dan says.

Eric gathers his pile of branches in a sling, and pats my shoulder. "Gotta get back," he says. "I'm glad you made it, Eva."

Though he's got an inch or two on me in height, I remember that he's probably a couple of years younger, and I wonder if other friends of his haven't come back.

"Let's go," Dan says, clapping Frankie on the shoulder. "You're on pea duty for stabbing yourself. See you later, Evie. Nice going."

Frankie is still smiling as he allows himself to be steered away.

Minho nods to Newt then looks at me.

"You did good, Eva," he says. "Thanks. I gotta go see Ben."

"I hope he's doing better," I say as he retreats at a leisurely jog. "Thanks, Minho!"

Zart throws an arm over my shoulders, his smile lighting him up. "Well, you missed a fun day," he says, steering me away from the Doors.

Newt falls into step with us.

"Someone let the goats out by mistake, and they've eaten through a row of my cabbages. I swear, Jack nearly gored the brown one with a rake before Dan was able to snatch him up. The goat, that is, not Jack."

"Pepper?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

"Bloody hell," Newt mutters to my right.

Zart's smile stretches from ear to ear. "Of course you named them," he says. "He's fine."

"She," I correct. "Pepper's a she. If she's not, I'm a little worried about the milk we've been getting from her."

Newt snorts.

Zart cracks up like this just tops his day off nicely. His arm slips from my shoulders and I realise all my limbs _ache_.

"You can't be a Runner, Eva," he says when he's standing straight again. "We miss you too much around here."

He nudges me, and now that I've acknowledged how worn out I am, my balance seems to be tenuous. I stumble slightly.

Newt rights me, his fingers pressing gently into my side.

I look up at him, and the look he sends back is something complex as he slowly lets me go.

"Don't worry," I say, offering Newt a half smile before I turn to look at Zart. "It's just temporary."

…

I run again the next day.

Doug and Justin don't even look at me twice as we stand at the doors.

I'm still paired with Minho. Ben's fever has broken, but he's confined to his hammock with cough that sounds like he's trying to bring up his lungs.

The Doors grind open while the Glade is still quiet, and its time to start again.

…

We race through the Narrows.

Parts of it I think I recognise; the way an ivy creeper hangs in two loops, a crack like a triangle next to a set of rusted gear teeth, a broken piece of stone in the middle of a gap…

But I don't really know how we get from one to the next, so I keep up with Minho and follow him.

My heart is beating fast but rhythmically when we finally reach a gap that opens out into the long, winding Middle Ring.

"Need a break?" Minho asks, not even short of breath as he looks over his shoulder at me.

I shake my head. My legs burn, but it feels good. Feels like doing something.

Minho gives me the briefest of approving smiles and continues on.

Today I can already tell we're not just running around the different paths. Minho runs with more purpose, and we haven't doubled back once.

The sun moves above us, the clouds skate across the sky. Blood pounds through my ears and I start listening to my breathing with each stride I take.

Finally, he drops to a brisk walk and I fall into pace next to him. He's taller than me and I have to make my steps quicker so I don't fall behind.

"We're here," Minho says.

He stops and turns to me.

I'm not really sure where 'here' is. It's just another wide expanse of the Middle Ring. The cracked cement floor grows through with weeds and the sun falls across the long segments of wall, leaving angular shadows in the corners and the ledges. I'm not sure how long we've been going, but the sun is no longer right above us.

"Where is here?" I ask blankly.

Minho just looks back at me, "The place you're going to get us back from."

_I'm going to what now?_

My disbelief must show on my face because Minho's expression softens. "If you start steering us really wrong, I'll set you right; but you might be surprised with how much you do remember. So…lead us back."

"Can we eat first?"

I think I see a smile crack his face. "Sure."

So we sit against one of the walls in the sun and start to demolish our lunch rations while my mind whizzes over everything I think I know about the Maze.

I'm ninety-seven percent sure I'll be getting us totally lost, but the other three percent of me is buzzing with adrenaline.

I crumble up the packet, shoving it back into the pack on my back, and as I do my eyes catch on one of the blocks missing from the wall ahead.

This one sits about the height of a second floor in a building and ivy creepers have grown through the cracks and up the side.

A vantage point.

I get up, brushing off my jeans and start over to the wall.

Minho follows without a word. He doesn't even speak when I start picking at the vines, finding the thick ones strong enough to take my weight.

And then I start to climb.

I hear his breath rush out behind me, but I don't look back.

I know he found Newt, after attempting a jump, and I figure it's taken a fair bit of restraint not to question me now.

"Just getting a look," I assure him.

Climbing up a wall doesn't feel any more unnatural than climbing a tree, strangely.

I grip the vines but also use my fingers and sneakers to seek out cracks and holds in the stone. The height doesn't bother me.

The higher I get, the more breeze there is. My hair – braided again – gets tossed down my back and escaped strands blow across my vision. The air is pleasantly cool against my skin, and catching in my clothes. It chases off the heated feeling of constant running.

The ledge has a ceiling from a block of the wall above. There's just enough space for me to crouch, and I half crawl forwards.

The walls to the left are higher than where I rest. The rest of the Middle Ring has walls all the same height. But to the right, going back to the Narrows, they're a little lower.

It's useless as a vantage point, though. While I can just see the tops of the walls from here, I can't make out any of the paths, or see the shape of the Glade at all.

The tops are all swarmed with creepers and rubble and the interlocking pieces all seem to merge together in a mass of ivy and rock.

Sighing, I turn back.

I guess I'll just be relying on…well…instinct.

I drop back to the floor and Minho gives me an expectant look.

"Had to try," I say.

I figure using the gaps to see further is nothing new to any of the Runners, but experiencing is the best way to learn, and he had to let me see for myself.

I take in a breath and turn back for where I know we came from. At least I have somewhere to start.

"Let's go."

…

I'm pretty sure that I've gone awfully wrong within ten minutes, but Minho says nothing as he runs steadily at my shoulder, waiting for me to make the decisions.

I've managed to get us out of the Middle Ring. With its wide open spaces, my mind could more easily recognise the place we entered it. There was a huge crack the shape of an F on the wall and I remember a boulder of chipped stone next to a tall weed.

So I get us back into the Narrows.

I recognise the gears in a wall and hang a left in front of it.

Then I just start to guess.

Everything starts to swim together, and my pace drops. Finally, I come to a stop in a gap with a left and a right turn in front of me.

I don't recognise it.

I haven't recognised anything for a while. In the back of my mind, I'm conscious that it's gone past noon.

I glance sideways at Minho.

He doesn't look concerned. In fact, his features are impassive.

I feel my heartbeat pick up, even though I'm standing still. Shocks zap through my blood and I take in a steadying breath. I force myself to focus.

Minho won't let us get stuck out here. I know that.

My fears are irrational.

But this is why he's done this.

I need to stop second guessing and worrying about what I don't know and just start using the things I _do_ know.

"You want a hint?" Minho asks when I've been standing there for more than ten seconds.

My heart is steady again.

"No," I say. "We're going this way."

And I turn right.

…

I've definitely gone wrong.

But then…I guess that depends on how you define wrong.

I'm running again, legs beginning to ache and the pack with it's crossed over knives warm between my shoulder blades.

I don't recognise this path; I don't know that I've ever been down it.

I stop at another opening.

It's on my left, there's a path moving away from our current one on a right angle, but the one we've been running down continues on ahead of us.

Something is odd, though, and it takes me a moment to work out what.

The ground under us all day has been dry and solid. Weeds grew in the Middle Ring, but the Narrows just have the creepers – and many more of them.

The ground up the path ahead is dry and solid, but coated in dust, too.

The fine dirt settles all across the cramped space, from wall to wall. There are messy furrows in it, but more dust has settled in them, so they're barely visible.

Someone went down there, or came back, but it was a long time ago, and no one's gone since.

I start forwards, curiosity burning in the pit of my stomach and for the first time, Minho touches my shoulder.

"Not that way," he says.

I look up at him.

"I know," I say. "We have to go left." Somehow I know that going left will set us back on track, but the dusty path draws me. "I just want to look down here."

He hesitates, but the sun hasn't dropped behind the wall yet. I think we have time. And when Minho nods, I figure he decides we have the time, too.

I move forwards again.

The sand coloured dust appears to have fallen from the walls over time. At the end, the path turns left, and it's the only way forward.

We both walk down it.

"How did you know?" Minho asks.

"The ground," I say. "The paths you use regularly are pretty clear."

It seems obvious now, but it took this – an obviously unused path – for me to really process it.

"Not bad, Eva," Minho says, and I can't help feeling bolstered by the subtle note of praise in his tone.

"Why don't you come down h-" my words dry up before I finish the question.

Just ahead of us is a section of wall that clearly moves – the same rusted gear teeth visible in the crevice where it meets the rest of the Maze.

A black stain is smeared down the flat side of the stone.

Blood.

Years old.

"That's why," Minho answers my unfinished question.

_Who?_ Burns on my tongue, but I realise before I ask it that I know that answer, too.

Newt told me.

_"George got trapped. None of us saw what got him when night came, but when we went out the next day, we brought back what we could. He's been buried in the Deadheads for three years."_

My breathing catches in my throat and my stomach turns over.

But I walk closer.

Somehow, the sun doesn't seem to reach this part so easily. Everything is cast into long, purple shadow.

Behind the moving part of the wall is a dead end.

When the gears push that wall closed, you're stuck in a tiny square of the Maze.

Deep gouges are etched into the stone. Long, single drags, some low and others far higher than my head. A shredded piece of greyed cloth, hidden beneath a layer of dust, is caught in a crack. There are more of the black stains, smeared and sprayed among the browning ivy.

The macabre patterns have dried over the years; begun to crumble, but the ghost of a murder lives in what's left.

This is a tomb.

"Wow," I mutter. My breath catches in my throat.

I feel Minho throw me a glance. "You okay?" he asks.

I nod.

It's a scene stuck in time; untouched from the day a boy died there. But it feels disconnected.

I never knew George. He's just a name to me.

Seeing the place he clearly died makes me feel a sharp stab of sorrow, but there isn't enough left here to haunt me.

"I'm fine," I say. "You brought him back, didn't you?"

Minho's eyes are clouded with the memory when I look at him. He glances behind us, and when I follow his gaze, I can see the half lost furrows in the dirt on the ground.

"We dragged back what was left," he says. "Buried him. Never came down here again."

"But you let me," I say.

Minho looks at me. His eyes are clear and firm.

"You're a Glader now; maybe not a Runner; not for good, but you're still one of us. This life is hard, Eva… If you could call it a life. This is the truth of it. Not everyone makes it."

He let me come here to help me understand. And I think I do.

We'll lose more boys before this is over.

"Time to go," I say.

Minho nods. There's something that I think might be approval in his eyes.

I turn and lead the way back out.

…

Minho has to steer me right twice as we approach the Glade.

The sun is low, the field at the end of the stone tunnel and the canopy of the Deadheads glowing gold.

We run across the threshold with just minutes to spare.

Minho turns to me, gives me a nod. "Well done," he says. "I've got to go."

I just smile at him. "Hope Ben's better," I say.

I don't regret my time in the Maze, but I remember Newt's unease with it, and after finding George's tomb, I think I've had enough of it.

Running is not meant for me. Not every day. And I'm sure Minho will be happier with Ben back at his side again.

"He should be soon," Minho says, attention wandering off towards Homestead. "We should get back out to the Outer Ring soon."

I get the strangest feeling of having an answer just out of reach when the words register, and I frown.

"Is there a reason we didn't go?"

And I suddenly realise I know the answer.

"Newt asked you not to."

I remember the night Minho said Ben couldn't run. How Newt had walked away with him and he hadn't looked surprised at all.

Minho looks very slightly guilty, but he shrugs it off and says, "He just asked me to be sure you were safe. There's more things that can go wrong in the Outer Ring. You can trip sequences, and things move during the day."

"It's okay," I say. And I do get it.

Minho nods.

"Go. Go find Ben."

He spares me a last glance and then jogs for Homestead.

I stand in the dying sun before the Doors as they begin to grind closed and realise that I'm exhausted.

I do get it.

It's what I was told; its just as much the mental exhaustion as it is the physical. Having to navigate myself, rather than relying on Minho wore me out far more than I was yesterday.

Deciding to forgo catching up with the others, I head right for the shower block.

I think I'll crash before supper.

…

I wake up when Alby enters the hut, calling my name.

It's still light out, but my hair has dried from my shower, spilling over the edge of the hammock.

I shake off the last grips of sleep and prepare to join the others. As the sleepiness leaves, so does the last fragile memory of the tomb in the Maze.

Ben is looking much better when I spot him.

Jeff is in the Medi Tent with a cough by sundown.

Apparently it's going around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO:
> 
> 1\. This is not the start of an abrupt tone change. In the Maze, Eva starts to get exposed to the darker side of their lives; the futility of always looking for a way out. And she also happens to find the place a boy was killed. Discovering it helps her to start appreciating the gravity of the situation. But there are still good times - if you can call them that - in the Glade. So while this is the first delve into the darkness of what's to come, expect good and bad throughout the story.
> 
> ...
> 
> ...Sadly no teaser this time. I really couldn't find a good bit without giving away anything.
> 
> -To be posted during the week-


	7. A Lack of Bed Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a lack of bed rest and (mostly) harmless fun

The Glade doesn't seem to truly go through winter.

I've asked.

The temperature drops a little for a couple of months, and it gets very hot in the Gardens over what is called the Summer period, but the woods never turn brown, and there is never snow or ice. The days get shorter and longer, but not by much. It raises a lot of questions that we don't have answers to.

But though the climate seems static in some strange way, getting a common cold doesn't seem to be abnormal.

It does seem to be the Runners that bring them in, though, which might imply there's contagions left in the Maze on purpose.

Just more questions.

…

Ben gets back on his feet from the bug.

The following day he's back to Running with Minho.

I happily return to working in the Infirmary and helping with the animals up at the Bloodhouse.

Clint does errands around the Glade and I spend much of the day with Jeff, whose fever has broken, but is still technically on bed-rest. I watch him while my fingers keep busy stacking jars and weaving strange wind chimes from twine and twigs.

The following day, Jeff is getting back into the swing of things with some less strenuous tasks.

I'm laid up with the cold.

I figure Jeff's quicker recovery is due to him being exposed to it before. I also attribute my quick downward spiral to having no immunity to the bug at all.

By mid morning, my head is pounding, I can't walk in a straight line, my fingers shake just rolling bandages and it hurts to speak.

And I'm _bored_.

Jeff tells me, smirking, that I'm off of work and I need to rest. I'm no longer contagious – the few hours before symptoms set in are when it can catch, so now I just need to ride it out.

He feeds me Clint's concoction, and gives me a jelly-like paste that's meant to soothe my throat.

I seize the opportunity when he goes to clean out some of the empty jars, and I escape the Medi Tent.

I let myself into the animal pens at the Bloodhouse, by-passing the Butchery where I can hear Lee and Winston having a laugh. I sit myself on a bucket in the corner of the goat pen and feed left over lettuce to the rabbits through the neighbouring wire fence.

White-Foot sits next to me in the grass, his ears low over his mottled back and tiny jaw working in circles as he munches.

The three goats browse around, lipping up loose hay and scratching their horn stubs on the fence posts.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting, coughs rattling up my throat and shivers taking over, when a shadow falls across me.

"You're meant to be on bloody bed rest."

I smile wearily, looking up.

Newt's eyebrow is raised. He mostly looks not impressed, but he looks more amused than he might have done if he were actually not impressed.

"I'm _bored_ , Newt," I say. At least speaking is easier, even if my voice comes out a little husky. I guess the jelly worked. "Fresh air's meant to be good for you, right?"

He shakes his head, ruffling his hair with a hand even as he smiles slightly.

"Come on."

I hunker down on the bucket. "Nope. No. I cannot spend a whole day in my hammock. I'll go nuts. I'm fine here."

Newt crouches in front of me, gazes at me for a second with a strangely soft expression, and then lifts his hand.

The backs of his fingers brush across my forehead.

He feels freezing.

"You have a fever," he says.

_Well, that makes more sense._

"Oh," I say. I hadn't really noticed.

He smiles softly. "Come on."

Sighing, I get up and walk with him back across the field to Homestead. Instead of sending me to the hut and my hammock, he ducks inside himself and returns with at least three blankets, then leads me into the Kitchen.

Frypan and the others clear some pans from the hearth and leave me a space by the small fire they've built. I curl up on the floor where it's warm. Stan sits nearby as he seasons tonight's broth and the others return to their jobs with their usual chatter.

I fall asleep much quicker than I expected to.

…

When I wake up, the kitchen is empty but for Fry, and there's no sunlight leaking through the gaps in the roofing.

It's dark out.

I sit up stiffly. My muscles scream at me and I stop moving.

There's a bone deep ache all through my body, I feel dried out on the inside and it's like someone's bashing a hammer around in my head.

"Hey," Frypan says quietly. "Saved you some supper. Just some broth; it'll be way easier for you to eat. And some water."

He moves from one of the work benches to sit with me.

The hearth is just ashes now.

He holds out a dish and I take it with shaking fingers, gingerly feeding myself after tipping back the tankard of water he sets down.

"Is everyone outside?" I ask.

My voice scratches.

Pain lances up my throat like something clawing at me from the inside and my eyes sting.

"Fire's being snuffed out," Frypan says. "Its turn in time. Want a hand getting back?"

I want to say no, but I don't know that I can stand properly on my own, so I nod carefully and mouth 'thanks'.

I'm a bit afraid to speak again.

He smiles and gently helps me up, keeping the blankets wrapped around me.

Though around the same height as me, he's strong enough to support me as we shuffle from the kitchen to the hut I share with Newt and Alby.

As I walk, the shakes die down a little, and my headache turns to a more bearable throbbing.

I thank Fry again with a whisper and turn myself in for the night. It's as I am throwing the blankets back into my hammock that I realise one isn't mine.

It's an unfamiliar dark red weave with fraying edges.

Turning it over in my hands, I tip toe around my partition and peer past Newt's.

He's laying front down in his hammock, blankets tangled around him, and clearly shirtless. His machete back harness is hung up on the post supporting the hammock, alongside his usual once-white hooded shirt.

Not much moonlight gets through the well-made walls, but there's just enough to cast a dim glow across his relaxed shoulders.

Biting hard on my lip, I lay the red blanket across him and head back to my own bed, crashing back into sleep with no small amount of relief.

I hate being sick.

…

The bug seems to be on its way out the following day.

I'm still shaky, still with a headache and the coughing is more persistent, but I can talk without feeling like there's a knife down my throat, the fever has broken and I don't feel like I'll break or burst into tears every time I move.

I refuse to sleep another day away, and it seems Jack managed to contract it while I was suffering yesterday, so he's shut away in the Medi Tent.

Instead, I spend the day with Newt.

It's not the worst turn of events.

I walk around the Glade with him, often sitting off to a side as he catches up with the Keepers and pitches in where needed.

We spend half the morning with Zart. Newt helps him fix up a wheelbarrow and I pick blackberries, as it's deemed light enough work. Most of the Track-Hoes are out in the growing crop field, carefully tending the corn planted back in my first weeks.

We move on to the Bloodhouse where Dan, Lee and Newt fix up one of the pens. Alby gets called in to help with that one. Meanwhile, I milk Pepper and clean the knives in the Butchery.

Alby and Newt take a walk before lunch, so I sit with Tim by the Hammock hut, helping to string out the laundry. The strings running from the beams of the hut across to a storage unit are tight elastic, and each time Tim pegs a shirt to them with a split chip of wood, they snap back into the sky. The billow of air it makes is actually quite relaxing.

I don't really have an appetite back, so I eat an apple as I sit with Dan and Winston for lunch and then I'm back to tagging along with Newt as he gives the Bricknicks a hand fixing up the Council Hall's leaky roof.

Just being told what our next stop is reminds me of the day when it rained, and what Newt told me about the first year in the Glade. It's a strange memory; something sad and cold but also warm for very different reasons.

I can somehow tell Newt feels similarly about it with the glance he gives me as we step inside.

I sit on the steps for at least two hours, trimming the occasional branch with Newt's machete and passing them up to the boys.

Whenever I offer to help more, I'm told to sit down as I'm still technically on bed rest.

I don't do bed rest well.

But it's probably better that I'm not allowed to help. I'd most likely bring the roof down instead.

When the roof is woven so densely you can barely see the failing light through it, we pack up for the day. The Bricknicks gather their things and head off, leaving Newt and I to make for Homestead.

…

"How're you feeling?" Newt asks as we walk across the field.

I'm trying to hide the shakes in my legs as we go. All day I've felt a little wobbly and off balance, but I'd take this over not being able to talk without pain yesterday. "Better," I say, and it isn't a lie.

Newt looks at me a moment longer and I'm sure he can probably tell I'm tired and walking over the grass like its jelly, but he doesn't say anything.

I'm coughing again and sharp pangs tear through my chest with each one by the time we duck into the Mess Hall.

It's too early to be eating, but the other teams have packed up, too, and they're gathered around the tables getting ready for some field games before supper. Frankie's jumping up and down holding a large ball made from tightly interwoven straw stems and Justin stands a few tables down from him with a wooden baseball bat and a much more solid looking ball that could only have been sent up in the box; it's not made of anything natural that I can tell.

The boys weave their way around, deciding on the game they want to play.

"Feeling better, Evie?" Lee asks me, swerving around a table when he notices Newt and I have arrived.

I try my best to nod, eyes streaming and coughs wringing my throat.

Lee gives me a look of absolute sympathy and I feel Newt giving me another slightly concerned glance even though neither of them says anything.

"I'm better," I say again, when I can breathe. My voice is rough to my own ears. "Just…not quite there yet."

"Not going to join in, then?" he asks. He nods back to the two forming groups of Gladers; one for football, or hand ball, and the other for cricket or baseball or whatever version of rounders Zart has thought up today.

"No," Newt says, before I can reply. Not that I'd have had a different answer. "You're going to sit and watch."

"And miss out on all the fun?" I croak back, just to see his reaction.

Me running right now would probably result in disaster and we both know it.

Newt gives me a withering look and places both hands on my shoulders to steer me back to the doorway. Thankfully he no longer feels ice cold. In fact, he emanates a comforting kind of warmth.

"Yes," he says firmly.

Lee chuckles as I'm ushered away and I call back to him, my voice cracked, "Have fun."

I end up sitting myself by the fire pit, still full of ashes from yesterday, as the boys pour out of Mess Hall and start to arrange themselves on the field. I've never really joined in with their games before. Some of the boys explained some of them to me, using rules I'd never heard of, but other than throwing back a ball that's gone a bit wide, I've not really thought to get involved.

Sitting here now, as another cough races up from my chest, I decide I'm going to have a go as soon as I'm free of this bug.

They laugh and dart about; the two balls sailing through the air and more often than not, crossing from their own sections of the field into the other game. The sky starts to darken around us as they play, and they start missing the catches more. Jack gets thumped in the stomach by the football. The tiny cricket ball nearly takes out Dan's arm when he jumps to catch it. Zart nearly cripples Eric with the bat.

Stan and Tim both start to build the fire in the pit beside me and the evening passes in a warm haze of flickering light, vegetable broth and laughter.

…

The next morning, I'm thrilled to find that the shaky feeling has practically disappeared with a good night's sleep. And breathing in the fire until the sky was black and the moon high has eased my chest, too.

The coughing is far easier to bear and I only feel my balance waver once on my way to the shower block.

It feels kind of like scrubbing away the rest of the bug as I use the harsh sponge and stand under the lukewarm pump. I wring out my hair and pull on my washed clothes before joining the others for breakfast.

Jeff tells me I can return to work, but to stick to chores in the Medi Tent and not go wandering all over the Glade, patching the boys up. So I set about checking the stocks, cleaning bandages and making sure none of the poultices have gone off.

A part of me misses volleying between all the teams, helping with the odds and ends, like I did with Newt the day before. But I'm even happier that I've been deemed well enough that I can be left alone to get on with my usual tasks.

Not that the message seems to have gotten around.

Frankie stops in mid morning saying he has an awful splinter, but I can't find one. Not ten minutes after I get rid of him, Zart drops by with a tiny carrot, saying he just dug it up and it was too small for the Kitchens, so I should give it to White-Foot.

I send him off, too, and by lunch time, Jack has turned up saying he bruised his arm with a trowel, followed shortly by Henry who tells me – perfectly straight-faced – that he fell on his neck.

I mean… _how?_

When Dan turns up, I don't even ask him what's wrong before saying, "Unless you're dying, you can go back to work, too. I'm fine."

And he smiles at me like its Christmas and turns right back around and leaves.

The only legitimate visitor I have all day is Stan, who says Clint sent him for a jar of his concoction.

Not that he's any help.

When I tell him about the endless line of concerned brothers, he just laughs.

…

Two days later and I feel like I never caught the bug. It took the better part of three full days to make it out of my system and my only hope is that should I still be here long enough to catch it again, it'll go faster, like it did for Jeff.

When everyone packs up that evening, I go to join the boys in the field.

It's about time I had a go at one of these games.

"It's easy," Zart says, handing me the cricket ball. "This one is called Squares. Someone throws you the ball, you hit it. You have to throw the bat behind you, run for the first marker, high five the marker-guard and then jog backwards for the second marker. You have to fist bump him and moonwalk to marker three. You have to play rock, paper scissors with him and if you win, you hop to the fourth marker. If you lose, you switch places and he has to hop on. If you get to the fourth marker before the pitcher has the ball back and rolls it across your path, you're home free. If you don't make it, you're out and you have to stand on the square where you got caught until your whole team has had their turn."

My mind spins.

" _Easy_?" I ask weakly.

Zart beams, swinging the wooden bat up onto his shoulder. "Kidding," he says. "Just try to run around the markers and back to base before the ball is back with the pitcher."

"Awwww!" Lee complains behind me, and I turn around. He's smiling so hard that I think his face must hurt. "But those rules sound more fun."

Zart hesitates, shoots looks between the two of us – Lee's hopeful expression and mine, which I figure must be either horrified or very, very confused – and then he laughs.

"You're right," he says. Then he turns to the crowd of boys not far from us, some of whom are setting out flat rocks in a square formation to mark the game field. "Oi! Gladers! New rules!"

Everyone seems to groan.

One voice can be heard saying, "Here we go. I still have a lump on my head from the last time we tried new rules..."

Zart, totally unaffected by the reaction, marches into the group, already laying out the mess of instructions he reeled off to me.

Lee nudges me, his beaming smile ever brighter. And though I can barely remember half of what we're doing, I feel myself smiling anyway.

"This is going to go bad, isn't it?"

"Very," Lee agrees promptly.

And it does.

The first time Eric throws the bat behind him, it hits Frankie. Frankie can't work out how to jog backwards, so he gets caught out, and just moments later Stan topples into him on his turn. Neither Zart nor Justin can moonwalk, so they end up doing a weird crab-like shuffle to the third marker and only one of them makes it. There's a pile up of at least four boys on the last leg of the course where they all lost balance trying to hop as fast as they could and it makes it very difficult for the last members of the team to get around, trying to avoid everyone who has to remain where they got caught out.

Alby joins in, but is too dignified to run backwards, moonwalk or hop. But he hits the ball so far that he makes it all the way around just walking anyway.

My go is about as good as can be expected.

I'm amazed when I manage to even hit the ball on my second attempt and I'm caught out with the game of rock, paper, scissors. I switch and stay with the flat marker rock while Billy tries to hop past the crowd of static boys, all on one leg.

Things don't progress much better when we switch teams, though it's far easier to field the ball and lob it back than it is to moonwalk.

Frypan, Clint, Newt and Minho all sit out. I can see them moving around the fire pit, preparing it as the sky darkens, but they all keep an eye on the game, with Fry laughing outright whenever one of his Cooks is caught out.

Finally, it's time to pack in.

We move the rocks to the base of the Lookout Tree and Zart carries the bat and ball towards Homestead.

"So, what's tomorrow?" Dan asks. "Going to reinvent Drop ball so we all have to play sitting down?"

"Don't give him ideas," Lee mutters, elbowing his team mate.

And I can't help feeling my spirits lift, as I follow the others into the Mess Hall and sink onto a bench with Fypan, Minho and Newt.

"Have fun?" Frypan asks, handing me a dish and smirking like watching was a far more rewarding activity.

And yeah, I did, but- "You're all mad," I say, shaking my head and picking up a spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. The scene at the end of the field games. I feel like I want to explain this a bit. As a more character driven story - at least until later - while many elements of it are me trying to subtly guide an underlying plot, the games shown here are very much rooted in the character side. They don't matter in the grand scheme of the story or plot, but they're important to the characters as people, and that's what this story is all about. Ben getting sick allowed Eva to go into the Maze, and Eva falling sick allowed you to glimpse how the boys have come to worry about her (unnecessarily, if you ask her), but showing you the games doesn't really allow for anything. Its simply a part of Glader life; they create their own games and find ways to have fun when the day comes to a close, because it lets them forget for a bit just how they're living. So the sickness may have been a plot device, but the scene around the games is for world building and the characters themselves. I hope that makes some small bit of sense. I have an odd mind.
> 
> 2\. Following on from that; the games invented here are a heavy dose of my creation. Based on rounders or baseball type games, but my insanity came up with the specifics. As to the occurence of the games themselves, I can't say for the books, and in the movie I didn't see any, so I can't be sure, but I may have introduced that concept, too. It feels like if they formed enough of a community to have functioning jobs and teams, then they can have (semi) functioning sporting events.
> 
> FINALLY - I'd love your thoughts! - I'm sort of writing in my head various parts of this story, but told through they eyes of the other characters (sort of a collection of companion pieces). IE, Eva's arrival from Gally's POV, her and Newt's silent period from his eyes, maybe the conversation between Newt and Minho about Eva running?
> 
> Would anyone be interested in reading any of these moments? Some would be familar, told in another perspective, others may be moments between other characters that I've hinted at, but not shown - so the conversations would be new. If you are interested, let me know! And if you have any bits you'd really like to read, tell me them, too!
> 
> Right, I'm done :)
> 
> Chapter 8 - Teaser
> 
> "Well…it could have been worse, right?" I ask. I'm not sure if I believe it, though. Something just seems…off.
> 
> (I know that this is delightfully vague).
> 
> -To be posted at the end of the week-


	8. The Secrets Spilled in Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go wrong...well, wronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And keep an eye out if there's any scenes you want from other perspectives as we go :)

Nearly two full weeks go by without much excitement, unless you count the daily hijinks.

The next Box Day is just around the corner.

We should have known it was too good to last.

The sky gets dark early one day – not by much, but enough that we pack up before usual. Clouds roll in overhead, but it doesn't rain.

The Runners make it back.

Minho and Ben look none the worse for wear, but Doug and Justin – despite my not knowing them well – look plainly exhausted.

I've been sitting outside the Kitchen with Jeff, Winston and Newt when the group jog past us, and it's easy to see the way Newt's brow furrows with concern.

"Go," I tell him, taking his pile of twigs. "I've got this."

I take over the task of putting the kindling into the fire pit, ready for lighting.

He touches the back of my neck very lightly as he stands. "Thanks. I'll be back."

He jogs after the Runners, stride a little uneven thanks to the limp.

"What's that about?" Winston asks, nodding to Newt's retreating back.

I shrug.

"Doug and Justin don't look right," I say. "I haven't seen Alby today, so Newt's gone to check it out.

"Oh," Winston says. He hesitates before returning to the fire he's trying to start with two pieces of flint.

I get the strange feeling that I've answered a different question to the one he asked.

…

Newt returns in less than fifteen minutes. He looks preoccupied and concerned.

"Are they okay?" I ask.

Newt glances at Jeff and Winston, who are chatting away nearby.

He sighs as he drops down next to me, wrists resting on his knees. "Doug and Justin got split up," he says, in a low tone. "A wall moved too quickly, and Doug seems to think it shouldn't have. They had to find another path to meet up, so they're tired and a little shaken, I think. Justin's exhausted; didn't even say anything. He's in his hammock already."

"Well…it could have been worse, right?" I ask. I'm not sure if I believe it, though. Something just seems…off.

In less than twenty-four hours, I know what that is.

…

I'm making my way through the Deadheads the next morning with a sling that I've been filling with strips of bark to use in a remedy.

The cracking of twigs behind me surprises me and I spin around.

I recognise Justin, but he looks worse than Ben did when he caught the cold.

He's white as a sheet; his eyes bloodshot and his breathing harsh. The part of me that's learned to work with Clint and Jeff wants to check him over and help.

But a bigger part of me screams danger.

A cold feeling rushes down my spine.

The chill seeps through my blood.

_This is not safe._

_Don't get any closer._

"Justin?" I ask, tentatively instead. "Hey, are you okay?"

He clearly isn't but I don't know what else to ask.

His breath hisses through clenched teeth. The sound rattles.

"Wrong," he says. His voice is scratchy, like something is clawing at his throat. "They mixed you up."

_What?_

"Sent to test us!"

He stumbles towards me.

I back up a step. My heart is suddenly thundering, adrenaline making my sight sharp.

His eyes are wild. There's no true recognition there.

The veins in his neck stand out darkly; pulsing.

_Sting._

I remember the vague accounts from Jeff about it. Only a couple of people have been stung before. There is no happy ending.

All I know is the people stung seem to lose all grasp of reality and go mad. It makes veins pop out and pulse black. It makes the victims aggressive and unpredictable.

For some reason my mind jumps back to the afternoon I was sat with Tim, hanging clean clothes. I remember the sharp snap of the elastic lines. I don't know why.

"Justin!" I say, even knowing it's futile.

"Adam and Eve!" He shouts. "They swapped you!"

And he lunges at me.

I throw the sling of bark into his face, dive around a tree and sprint for Homestead.

Justin may be a Runner, but he's not exactly in top condition. I'm faster today. But only just.

For someone who looks like they're on Death's door, he can chase me very well. His rattling, seething breaths are loud at my back.

I burst out of the trees by the Kitchen.

Stan looks up from where he's been setting clean pans down outside.

The smile melts straight off his face as he sees Justin come flying after me.

"Fry!" He yells, running back inside.

I don't stop.

Justin seems fixated on me, but I don't know if he'll turn on anyone else, and I don't know if this sting is contagious. As long as he's on my tail, he's not after anyone else.

An alarm seems to have gone up through the yells. Stan is somewhere behind me, outside again and this time shouting for Alby.

I can see boys running from all directions.

Gally's never really taken much notice of me, but even he's sprinting across the field, half the Builders in his wake.

Justin catches up.

His hand reaches out and snatches at my wrist and though I'm fast enough to twist away from him, three scratches rake into my skin.

White heat races up my arm.

I let out a gasp of pain, forcing myself to move faster.

_Climb a tree_.

The thought flashes across my mind.

No sooner than I think it, there's a dull, resounding clang and the pressure of being chased that I felt at my back – cold, frantic – is gone.

I stop and turn around. My breathing tears up through my throat; more panic than exertion.

Newt is standing there, a long shovel balanced in his hands, his shoulders solid and expression fixed into something both fierce and horror-struck as he stares at Justin.

Justin is splayed on the ground; nothing familiar in his eyes, skin a deathly pallor. A bruise is already blossoming on his jaw around a nasty cut and it bleeds a strangely blackened colour down the side of his neck.

Newt hit him with the spade.

The boys that were racing for us all pile on Justin, holding down his limbs as he twists in wild anger and pain.

"Hold him!" One of them shouts needlessly.

"Justin! Calm down!" another says, just as hopelessly.

Newt throws aside the shovel and next thing I know he's standing in front of me, eyes boring into mine as his hands cradle my face and turn it up.

I can't find it in me to be surprised.

He feels warm.

"Hey. You okay?"

I nod, wordlessly.

I'm not okay.

Newt isn't convinced in the slightest, I can tell. A part of me is grateful for that.

Newt drops his hands, instead gently gripping my arms and turning them over. His thumb brushes the scratches on the inside of my wrist and I flinch but he holds on.

"She was swapped!" Justin screams, his head thrashing around.

My eyes slide past Newt. My heart seizes in my chest.

Alby appears, and his face is as serious as I can remember seeing it.

"Check him," he says.

It's more of an order.

Clint is knelt by Justin's side, and he points to a small tear in his pant-leg.

I move around Newt, who lets me go, but follows as I approach.

The skin under the torn jeans looks like a poisoned web; tendrils of black snake out and criss-cross away from an inflamed puncture wound nearly the size of a five pence piece.

"He's been stung," Clint confirms.

Justin's wailing has dissolved into incoherent, meaningless sentences. He mutters about Adam and being wicked and night falling too soon.

"Take him to the Pit," Alby says.

The words settle on everyone. There's a finality there that I can't fully appreciate.

Jeff and Clint both help as more than six boys lift Justin's twisting body up and carry him away.

"Need to clean that up, Evie," Dan says to me, when quiet has returned. He nods to the scratches on my arm.

"Is it infectious?" I ask.

Alby is still standing there. There's a pressing shadow in his eyes; the weight of hard choices that need to be made to preserve the life we've built here.

"No," he says. "The sting isn't."

I nod. At least that's one less concern. I'd rather not wake up tomorrow and start attacking my friends.

"What's going to happen to him?" I ask.

"He harmed another Glader," Alby says. "He'll be banished."

I feel my breath rush out of me. I pull my sleeves down over my hands, hiding the scratches. I remember the teenager who smiled at me on my first run into the Maze. "He wasn't himself; you know he'd never have done it if he was."

"It's not just that, Eva," Alby says. "He's been stung. There's no cure for that; not in here. He'll only get worse. Everyone is in danger while he stays."

I bite my lip and nod determinedly.

I know he's right.

I just feel guilty. I never got to know Justin before this. And now he's lost.

"Come on," Newt says quietly beside me. His fingers brush my elbow and I look up at him. He nods to the Medi Tent, just a stone's throw away.

I follow him without further prompting, leaving Dan, Alby and the others to return to their jobs.

I realise when I get inside that I'm rattled by the whole thing.

The adrenaline has left my system, and my hands shake as I pick up the jar of poultice.

I can feel Newt's concern like a tangible presence as he takes the jar from me gently. "I'll do it."

I sit on a stool by the workbench and hold out my arm.

"Just a little," I say blankly. "Use the tab."

Newt does as I say, picking up a flat wooden stick about the length of the average pencil, which he uses to apply some of the cold poultice to the scratches.

He keeps his eyes on the task and works meticulously.

He's strapping some gauze over the top before he speaks. His voice is quiet, soft, a strange note of steel in it.

"What did he say to you?"

I think back. I remember the words with a surprising clarity and repeat them back. My voice sounds hollow to my own ears.

"Wrong," I say. "They mixed you up. Sent to test us. Adam and Eve. They swapped you…" And then the last somewhat cohesive words he'd said before being carried away, "She was swapped."

Newt's eyes are intent when I stop, fixed on my own.

"I always knew something couldn't be right," I say, sounding more like myself. Saying it out loud has eased the tight knot in my stomach. "A girl sent to the Glade.

"But everything they do is for a reason. He said I was sent as a test. A test for what? And what does 'Adam and Eve' mean?"

Newt twists the cuff on his wrist with his other hand. "There's no Adam in the Glade," he says. "Adam and Eve were the first two people in the garden of Eden."

"Eva," I say. My name. Something sinks down into me like a lead weight. "I'm Eve. And Adam…"

"There was an Adam," Newt guesses. "But they sent you instead. Swapped."

I feel like the truth behind this is just out of reach. We need another clue that just won't come.

"How could Justin know any of this? He's been in the Glade longer than I have."

"He came up three months before you," Newt says. "It took him three days to remember his name, but he was always quick. Minho wanted to take him on from the start."

I shut my eyes tight against the sudden stinging.

I don't want to hear this.

I feel guilty that Justin will be banished before I ever got to really know him, but learning about him now – knowing how he remembered his name and found his place – feels worse.

And yet I feel like I should hear it all.

Newt's fingers brush my hair back, away from my face and I open my eyes as his hand falls.

"We don't know for sure how the Sting works," he says. "But we've guessed. It's only happened a few times; always a Runner."

This bit I know.

The Grievers are some kind of nightmare brought to life; creatures that swarm the Maze at night. Maybe they don't like sunlight, or maybe they're released when it gets dark.

Gladers tend to believe it's the latter.

No one's ever seen one and lived to tell about it.

George was the first to die – a Runner who got caught out at night.

I found the place he was murdered.

He was buried in pieces.

Stephen was the first to get stung. The story goes that the sky got dark early and he just made it back. The next day he went mad. They kept him in the Slammer for days, trying to reason with him before Alby banished him into the Maze rather than kill him.

After him, the rule was born. Anyone stung would be banished.

"The people who were stung," Newt says. "Stephen, Alfred, Justin…they were good people; brothers. They all knew the rules, and Alby and Minho did their best to explain what happens to someone when they're stung, after Stephen. None of them would have come back here knowing they were endangering others."

I frown.

But all of them returned to the Glade after being stung. None of them, to my knowledge, told anyone what had happened. Justin was apparently just exhausted when he came back so…

"You think they don't remember being stung?" I ask.

Newt gives a half nod. "It makes the most sense. Something in the sting that makes you forget it's happened immediately afterwards. You just feel tired, and by the time you remember, if you do at all, the poison's already set in and there isn't enough sanity left to explain or warn anyone."

"So when Justin and Doug got split up yesterday…"

"Justin encountered a Griever. He survived, and he wouldn't have remembered seeing it. If he does now, he's not making enough sense to tell us anything useful."

"I thought they only came out at night."

"The days change. We think they get let out earlier if the sky gets dark early. It's all controlled by the bloody creators; if they define night by the amount of light…they could be released before the Doors close."

I bite my lip, "But…if I was switched, and you were meant to get a boy called Adam instead of me…how could Justin know that?"

"When Stephen was stung…he was shouting about mind swipes, people in lab coats, drowning tanks and thirty day plans."

Our memories have been wiped.

Someone did that.

I remember feeling like I was drowning all that time ago before I woke up in the Box.

And someone new arrives every month. Every thirty days.

Newt nods. "The best we can figure is the sting somehow drags up fragments of your memory.

"Not the best way to get it back, though. Not if madness and banishment is the price."

The Medi Tent fills with silence.

We've been talking for what seems like ages, just our low voices filling the space.

My arm throbs under the gauze and poultice.

"Thanks, Newt," I say. I pull my sleeve back down over the bandage.

He nods.

"I'll be fine; you should get back to the others."

Looking reluctant, he stands up and pushes aside the stool he'd been using.

"Find someone, if you need anything," he says. "And do me a favour and stay away from the Pit."

I look up.

I'm realising that somehow, we've become close enough that he can tell I was thinking of seeing Justin.

"You can't get through to him, Eva. And whatever he's remembered, it seems to be about you. Please…just…leave it."

I nod.

I didn't know Justin that well and his fate is sealed anyway. But I know Newt – or I'm learning him, at least – and it's no difficult decision to give him this peace of mind.

He nods back, hesitates at the doorway and then leaves.

My breath rushes out and the hut seems really huge suddenly.

There will be a banishing tonight.

I'm not sure I'm ready for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO:
> 
> 1\. Okay, so here's hoping Newt and Eva kind of explained it for you, but I want to clarify on this. The theorising in this chapter of how the sting works is mainly my own conjecture and thoughts. And its almost entirely based in what we see of the sting and the Changing in the film, with little titbits of book fact. We know what happens when someone is stung, we know it's happened before Ben - since its just the fact it occured during the day that surprises anyone - and all the Gladers know that once you're stung, you get banished, because there is no cure. And there's also the fact that no one has seen a Griever and lived to tell it at this point. So I started thinking over a way that any of this may fit together. This is the result of that. Something in the sting that causes amnesia of the event itself, so they return to the Glade unaware and with no memories of the monsters. And in order for the running partner not to have witnessed anything, they would have to have been split up.
> 
> So in short, I hope this is a believable explanation for you all. As I said, its based on what information we're given, but I've added a healthy dose of my own theories to it. If any of you watched the film and wondered about it or formed your own ideas, feel free to share; I'm intrigued in what other solutions you may have come up with.
> 
> 2\. You may recognise a couple of parallels. (Ironic, since they occur later on). That's intentional.
> 
> And lastly - the next bit doesn't seem to break off in an easy place, so would you prefer two shorter chapters, posted within a couple of days, or one longer one?
> 
> ...
> 
> Chapter 9 - Teaser
> 
> My breath catches in surprise.
> 
> This is the first time I've been hugged. Perhaps ever. I don't think it's something I usually like, but today it tethers me to the world for a moment.
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	9. The Things That Haunt Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a banishing and an idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Off screen character death and you may find the banishing upsetting. Mentions of some trauma and insomnia in the aftermath.
> 
> AN: It actually worked out a little longer than I thought, so hopefully it reads okay and I'll aim to have the next chapter up in a few days. This isn't the most cheerful of chapters - sorry about that, but its a necessity.

Almost everyone is gathered at the Doors as the sun drops that evening.

It's a sombre affair.

Or maybe macabre is the word I'm looking for.

Some of the boys carry long poles while the Keepers stand to form a walkway, each holding an even longer pole with a bar secured to the end.

The worst part is that it's clear these poles were built for very few purposes, and this is the main one.

As Keeper of the Runners, its Minho's job to walk Justin – his hands carefully bound – through the others to the threshold of the Maze.

Justin never stops his stream of nonsensical mutterings.

My heart tugs for Minho, who must have had to do this for all those who were banished before.

He uses a small knife to cut Justin loose, and there's a wrenching sadness in his upturned eyes as he throws a small survival pack out into the shadows of the stone corridor before us.

The Maze groans, and the Doors begin to grind.

"Posts!" Alby announces.

The boys on either side tighten their grips on the poles, and the Keepers lower their T-bars.

I stumble backwards, my throat closing up.

Justin's face flickers with the boy he once was, and he cries out in desperation, stammering apologies as he's forced into the path of the closing Doors.

Only Minho doesn't act. He stands to the side, hands in tight fists and head lowered.

He is already in mourning.

_No one survives a night in the Maze._

I press my hands over my mouth and hot tears spill down my cheeks.

I know the facts.

Justin isn't there anymore; not really. He's dangerous. There's nothing left of him and the madness will only work deeper.

But I've never seen this before, and I wasn't prepared for it to hurt so much.

I didn't even know him before it happened.

And with that, I wonder if it would kill me if I had to force Newt, or Zart or Dan into the Maze. If I had to watch their eyes fill with madness, see flickers of my friends that slowly fade until nothing is left but the aching hole where they used to be.

I force myself to stay.

I try to focus on the name. Justin.

Before I know it, the Doors bang shut and one by one, the boys set the poles against it and walk away.

Minho walks up to me and squeezes my shoulder firmly before heading for the woods. No one follows him.

Alby gives me a solid look as he approaches.

"He belongs to the Maze now," he whispers. "I'm sorry, Eva. If there was anything that could be done…"

I shake my head.

I saw the weight of this outcome in his expression this morning. Alby may be reserved and find it hard to open up at times, but no one can deny that he cares about every single person who arrives in this Glade.

If he could have saved Justin, or Alfred or Stephen – he would have.

Alby walks away, his head hanging.

Dan walks up to me instead.

He looks at me for a moment, then gently puts an arm around my shoulders and hugs me.

My breath catches in surprise.

This is the first time I've been hugged. Perhaps ever. I don't think it's something I usually like, but today it tethers me to the world for a moment.

I hug him back.

It's a little easier to breathe. My chest seems to knit together a fraction.

I pull away and Dan gives me a sad look.

"He's not really there anymore," he says. "He won't suffer long, and he wouldn't remember it anyway."

I nod.

Dan moves away and as he walks off, joining up with Winston and Lee, I spot Newt making his way towards Homestead. His head is down and I can tell from this far away that he's upset.

I hurry after him, catching up and falling into step. Without saying a word, I curl my arm around his middle, just under the leather machete harness and lean into his side.

I don't think I like hugs, but this seems a day for oddities, and if it made me feel a little better, maybe it will work the same for him.

I feel him look down at me, so I look up. I'm not able to smile but something stronger passes between us.

Newt's arm settles over my shoulders and we continue to Homestead.

…

The memory of the Banishing haunts me for three straight days.

The first night I wake up soaked in sweat with a silent scream.

The blankets are twisted around me and the oversized t-shirt I wear to sleep in sticks to my stomach and back uncomfortably.

Justin's terrified, deranged eyes float at the back of my mind, and the echoes of his shouts ring through my ears, even in the silence of the hut. I don't know how to shift this memory. A part of me feels like if I do, it will cast aside who he was. If we don't remember him; who will?

I tear myself free of the blankets and swing myself to the ground.

The earth is cool against my bare feet. I rake my hands through my tangled hair and lift it of the back of my neck as my heart settles.

Sleeping is not an option any more.

I blindly reach for a set of clothes beneath the hammock and tiptoe in the dark to the edge of the wooden partition. I'm going to shower away the sweat and as much of the memory as I can.

I hesitate as I pass Newt's section of the hut.

His room is just as shadowed as mine, but I'm awake enough now that I can make out the shapes of it – ones I didn't really take note of when I dropped off his blanket the time I was sick.

His hammock hangs at an angle, swaying very slightly. There's a woven reed mat on the ground, a small wooden stool and a long, low crate up against the partition that breaks this section from Alby's. Just two things sit on the crate; a smooth stone, which I know he uses to sharpen his machete, and what looks like a worn old book. The cover is bound closed with a length of leather, wound around it half a dozen times.

I can hear the very faintest of mutterings from Newt's hammock, and I realise this is what made me stop.

But as I stand there, silent outside the doorway, the hammock sways, Newt twists, and then the world falls quiet again.

I knew he looked upset earlier, but it seems everyone just somehow learns to cope with what has to be done.

I guess I have to find a way, too.

I head on past the doorway and out of the hut, jogging through Homestead to the shower block.

I shower in the middle of the night, dress in fresh clothes and spend the hours until dawn sitting in the field, watching the closed Doors like they have answers.

I can hear the Maze moving, and the clicking, hissing sounds of the Grievers.

They've already killed Justin.

…

I'm tired the next day, but I get through it with a bit of yawning. I have no appetite and can't force myself to eat more than a fraction of my meals.

The Runners leave in a group of three. I'm not even asked to join them. I'm grateful for that.

When they come back at noon, all they bring is a torn up boot and a shredded green shirt.

It's all that was left.

That night I twist in my hammock, woken with a feeling of claustrophobia I can't outrun when the sky is still dark and the moon high.

This time there are no subdued mutters from Newt's section. I don't even feel that restless need to get up and walk out to the Doors, despite the claustrophobia lingering on the edge of my consciousness.

I lay awake until morning.

I'm tired, but unable to find sleep.

My mind races through fragments that I can't put together. Adam and Eve, an echo of drowning, a torn green shirt on an elastic clothing line, a set of stone doors, permanently shut and knotted into creepers.

…

The lack of sleep starts to catch up with me and by the afternoon I can't focus on anything. My vision swims when I look at something too long, and I stumble on flat ground.

Jeff makes me sit down and rest.

I manage to sleep for a few solid hours and when I wake up, Minho is sitting in the Medi Tent nearby.

"You're not sleeping," he says, when he notices I'm up. In any other circumstance, it might be funny, given I've just _been_ asleep.

This isn't funny.

I shake my head.

"It's not exactly a choice," I say. "I just…can't. I keep seeing bits of it."

"And your mind thinks up the worst scenario," Minho puts in. "I know. I've been there."

"How do you handle it?" I ask.

Minho is saddened by it, but he's dealt a lot better. In fact, most of the sadness is in his eyes – he's sleeping, eating and functioning just fine.

Minho looks at me seriously. "I know what we did was for the best. I know it's what Justin himself would have wanted if he was thinking straight. He liked you, you know – thought you had what it took. He never would have hurt you if he hadn't been stung."

"There was a moment," I whisper. "As we were pushing him out, when he just looked like a kid."

And I realise when I say it, that it's this that has been bothering me so much.

It's this moment that caused the insomnia; the moment when he just looked like a desperate boy.

"I know it seems that way," Minho says. "But even if the nonsense stops, it's still the madness talking. I knew Justin. He was my friend. If it was really him in there, he'd still have been scared, but he'd have walked into the Maze to keep everyone safe."

Minho stands up. "Frypan said you haven't eaten properly in days. Come on, and then try to get a full night's sleep."

I accept his hand up.

I sleep through the night, finally and when I wake with the sun the next morning, I curl in the hammock on my side. I can't quite be as certain as Minho, but his words helped. Something has eased overnight and I'm able to find some measure of peace with Justin's absence.

…

Hours later, one of the Bricknicks trips over a stack of building spikes. When one of his friends laughs at him, he picks up a spike and throws it.

They're standing in front of Homestead.

I stop on the spot. Something in my mind clicks into place.

I can see the laundry lines. I remember the spring-like tension in them as clothes are pegged out. With the flying spike sailing harmlessly towards the ground, a word forms behind my eyes.

_Bow._

…

I'm able to talk to Eric, who looks like he welcomes the challenge when I ask for a long, straight piece of strong, flexible wood.

He brings it into the Medi Tent the next day, smiling as he holds it out.

It's a long, tapering branch from a silver birch.

I thank him and hide it away beneath my hammock. I resolve to work on whittling it into something useful when I have the time.

…

Four days later, the Box comes up.

There's a whole crate of fresh clothes among the supplies. The Bloodhouse is gifted a new goat – this one bright white with copper-chestnut patches on its head.

The boy who comes up looks about my age.

Gally hauls him up and onto the ground like usual.

"Day one, Greenie."

I can't help a smile.

His hair is auburn red and looks like it's been styled with a pair of shears. He asks all the same questions – where am I, who am I, who are you, why am I here…

We don't have all the answers.

We never do.

Alby shows him around when he's had a chance to cool off in the Pit.

Henry, our last Greenie, gives him the rundown at the Box Feast later that night.

We're recovering from Justin's tragedy, and a new arrival is what the group needs to look forward again. It's not the most energetic night, but the laughs and games return.

I take off my last bandage and see the barely there marks on my wrist that are all that's left of Justin.

I throw the bandage into the fire and it feels like letting go.

…

This one is called Rob.

He almost sets the Kitchen on fire on his first full day as a Glader.

There's some debate over whether he remembered his name, and the shock caused him to accidentally start the fire, or whether running away from it with his hair moving faster than he was is what triggered the memory.

Naturally, the Gladers like the second version of events better.

He doesn't stay with the Cooks.

Four days later and he joins the Track-Hoes.

On the same day, a boy from the Bricknicks, Dimitri, becomes a Runner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Most of this is based in what we see and know of the ritual from the movie, so it will resemble that one. And in regards to Eva's reaction, I'd always planned for it to be like this. Living in the Glade hardens you, but its a process, not an overnight change. Being confronted with the reality of their situation - deaths, banishings and more - is different to being told the stories, and I felt that it would hit her hard at first, and it would be something she took time to deal with.
> 
> Sorry - no teaser this time. I couldn't find a good bit again...
> 
> -Chapter 10 to be posted (hopefully) on Friday-


	10. Discoveries, Discussions and Disasters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a discovery and other stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Mentions of and situation around the female menstrual cycle. No explicit details but a heads up in case it makes anyone uncomfortable.
> 
> AN: That 'time of the month' is either completely avoided in fanfiction (and general fiction, honestly) or handled in ways that make me cringe (the stereotypes around it; don't get me started). I wanted to try - as I have been so far with other aspects - handling the reality of it. That said, the topic is dealt with in this chapter only, in a way I hope doesn't bother anyone too much.
> 
> And since I won't update now until next week, HAPPY EASTER, Guys!

Dimitri learns about the Maze.

Zart says Rob is a natural with runner beans.

I register that something is off about me.

Nothing sinister. Just off.

I've been here months; three now. And I realise one early morning in the showers that I haven't had a single menstrual cycle.

The thought stops me dead under the tepid stream.

I could be barren, I guess. But somehow I don't think that's right. And that's when I process that my legs have no hair at all, despite the fact that I've not used a knife to shave them.

I was sent here, I know that much, and whoever did it treated me in some way to achieve this.

I don't understand the purpose. Or maybe I don't want to understand it.

And yet, not having to scrape myself with a knife is nice, so I decide to let this one go.

I finish in the shower, re-dress in fresh clothes and make my way to Homestead for breakfast.

Its two days later when I bash my upper arm on one of the animal pens that I dig deeper.

I'm throwing food out for the geese when I spot a primary flight feather on the ground. They're not all that common, unless one of the birds has been plucked for supper, and my mind leaps back to the branch under my hammock.

The arrows will need feathers to guide their flight.

So I get down and half crawl under their nesting box to pick it up, which is when I whack my arm.

A bruise forms within a couple of hours, and Frankie laughs when I tell him I walked into a nesting box. It's a fleeting injury, and I can even convince Newt that I'm fine – because I really am.

But just before supper, I drop back into the Medi Tent to put a salve on it, and as I'm rubbing it in, my fingers brush the inside of my arm.

It's an unusual spot, not one that would ordinarily get paid much attention, which might explain why I haven't before felt the _thing_ that sits just under my skin.

My heart thuds painfully.

Fear lances up my spine.

_There's something under my skin._

…

I'm back in the Medi Tent after turn in time that night.

A single torch is enough light for me to see so that I can pull down what I need from the shelves and get to work.

I have a weird feeling about this and I don't want to tell anyone yet.

Clint's been working on a type of ointment with anaesthetic properties, made from berries in the woods. It's worked once, when he tested it on his own arm, so I'm willing to chance it on mine.

I rub some into the skin above the area I can feel the odd capsule. I flick my fingers at myself periodically until I can't feel it smarting anymore.

I pick up a small knife and cut.

It bleeds a bit, which makes my head swim a little. Apparently, when it's my blood it's different. But the cut isn't deep and it's quickly dabbed with poultice and bandaged.

I pick up the small silver capsule that came out of my arm.

It's barely an inch long. The ends are copper coloured and stamped down the side is 'CONTRACEPTIVE'.

I know what that word means.

I keep the capsule, hide it beneath my hammock with the knife I still have from my arrival, the silver birch branch I'm slowly whittling down and my growing collection of white feathers.

…

Within three days, my lower abdomen is in knots and it's painful to stand, let alone walk.

Jeff and Clint make me stay in the Medi Tent, laying hot cloths on the base of my spine – which does help a little. I plead with them not to tell anyone, and they agree, so long as it doesn't get worse and I feel better within the next couple of days.

So when I discover I'm bleeding – which I knew was coming – I rush to the showers to clean up. No one notices. Jeff brings me supper, saying to the others I'm just feeling a little under the weather.

Newt drops by but I don't want to explain this to him, so I pretend to be asleep.

He's done it to me before.

I don't open my eyes while he's there, and despite my lack of response, he stays a while. The faint sound of a soft scratching seeps into my consciousness and I must actually fall asleep, because when I next think about it, I realise that both the noise and Newt are gone.

That night, thankfully the bleeding stops and the cramps are tapering off. I figure after three months – maybe longer – of having no menstrual cycle, my body isn't sure how to react, so this one was shortened.

I'm not sure I can handle this again, though, so I light another torch and sneak to the Medi tent after dark once more.

I scour the shelves for ideas and dig through the supply crates.

I've been looking for over an hour, I estimate, when I find a small tin in the bottom of a crate that was sent with medical supplies at least two months ago. Maybe three. The same day I arrived.

It's sealed up, but I prise the lid open with a knife.

Inside is a small syringe gun. I pick it up, and the weight rests in my hands in a way that echoes with familiarity. The cartridge in it is loaded with a silver capsule that I recognise.

The bastards who put us here must have known I'd eventually find the contraceptive, freak out and remove it.

And then want it back.

I grit my teeth, press the tiny barrel to the skin on the underside of my arm and pull the trigger.

It hurts like hell, and I nearly split my lip from biting into it.

I throw the gun back in the tin and slam the lid on, burying it in the bottom of the crate.

By the time I go to bed, my arm is only tingling. The new capsule sits just under my skin, where the old one used to be.

My lip throbs; swollen but undamaged.

The rest of me feels a lot better.

…

Thanks to spending a couple of days in fear and intense pain, not wanting to tell anyone exactly what I was going through, I feel like I've missed out on a lot when I rejoin typical life at breakfast the next morning.

It's nice to laugh with the boys and get back into volleying between the Medi Tent and the animal pens.

Thankfully, everyone seems to accept that I just succumbed to some kind of bug.

Everyone except Clint and Jeff, who know I had some kind of stomach pain, and Newt, who knows I'm not telling him something.

…

"You're not telling me something," he says that evening.

Lee and Frankie are starting the fire in the pit in front of us. The sky is dark blue above and the woods a solid shadow behind Homestead.

The dishes are washed up from supper but most of the boys are off across the field, playing games. It looks like another bout of Squares, if all the staggering pile ups of Gladers are anything to go by. They're waiting for the fire to light and Gally's brew to appear.

I look up, my eyes following Newt as he sinks to the ground beside me, leaning back against the log and resting his wrists on his drawn up knees as he often does.

"What?" I ask, mainly to stall.

Newt doesn't speak for a moment, and then he reaches out, gently lifts my arm and turns it over.

His fingers trace the faint white marks on my skin. Even those white marks will soon be gone. My eyes stay riveted on the shadows that dance up my arm with the light touch.

"Thanks," I feel compelled to say, out of nowhere. "For hitting him."

Newt's fingers go still, gently holding my wrist.

I remember looking at him for the first time, and knowing instantly that he would use the machete on his back on me if he had to. The Gladers are his family. I was the danger that day.

Today I know with an unerring certainty that he'd use that blade, or any other to keep me safe, too. I don't want him to have to – I can still remember the damage the shovel did to Justin's jaw – but I know he would. Before the Glade, I have no memories of being part of a family.

Now, I feel like I've found one.

Newt's eyes are soft as he nods.

A beat passes.

The fire flares to life, already licking at the dry hay under the cone of twigs. Frypan and Stan toast with jars of Gally's Brew and a few of the Builders jog across to the wrestling ring.

"Are you going to tell me, then?" Newt asks.

"You don't want to know," I say, but he just gives me a 'start talking' look.

I wondered how long it would be before he asked me outright, so I'm prepared, even though I don't really want to have this conversation. I dig in my pocket and pull out the silver capsule that I cut out of my arm four days ago.

I drop it into his open palm and sit forward, biting my lip as he turns it over, brow furrowed.

I can pinpoint the second he realises what it is, the way his eyes widen and flash with surprise. He knows what a contraceptive is.

He looks up at me.

He might be blushing the smallest bit, but I can't really tell in the flickering light.

"I found it, by accident, in my arm," I whisper. I'm a little too aware that more of the Gladers are making their way over. "Four nights ago, I cut it out."

The whole line of his shoulders tenses. I see his jaw flex.

I gently nudge him.

"It's okay," I say. I take back the capsule and pocket it. "I used an anaesthetic mix. I cleaned the cut and it's already healed. It was just under the skin."

"How did you find it?" Newt asks. His eyes are calculating.

"Accident," I repeat. "I hit myself on the nesting box with the geese, and I was just putting a salve on the bruise when I felt it. Whoever switched me with this Adam guy, they injected me with that before I came here."

_Don't ask me why. I don't want to go there._

"So it's out now?" he asks.

"That one is," I say.

Alarm flares up in his expression.

"Shhh," I mutter. "When I cut it out, it stopped counteracting my…cycle, and it hurt. A lot." I don't have to look at his face to know he's remembering the 'bug' I had. "So I dug through some old supplies and found an injector gun with another one. I guess the Creators knew I'd find it eventually and my first thought would be to remove it. They sent up a replacement with me."

Newt lets out his breath in a long exhalation.

"And that's it; honestly," I say, my voice deliberately lighter. I'm done with the conversation now. "Told you, you didn't want to know."

I'm too busy looking straight ahead into the fire, and at first I don't register it when I feel his fingers lace through mine and squeeze. As soon as I do realise, he's retracting his hand. He looks forward, too.

"I did want to know," he says. "Come on. Let's get some of the Brew. And I'm going to take a turn in the Ring."

My gaze snaps to him as he stands.

Its not often Newt joins in with that.

"Against who?" I ask.

"I owe Minho a match," he smirks.

Newt smirks even less than he smiles, and there's a kind of playfulness in it that I like.

Suddenly thinking this evening will be a blast, I accept his hand up. I don't pay much attention when his arm settles over my shoulders. We aim straight for the jars on the table.

…

"It's entirely your own fault," I say the next morning, sliding a dish of scrambled eggs across to Newt.

He rolls his neck, wincing at the stiffness he woke up with.

"What's up with him?" Zart asks, sitting opposite us.

Rob follows him, setting down his own dish and smiling shyly. Jeff, Winston and Dan shuffle up to make space.

"Ring match," I say.

Zart's smile stretches into something mischievous. "Who won?"

"I did," Newt says. He winces again. "Not sure it was worth it, though."

I snort, quickly spooning up my eggs as I'm given a _look_.

"How are you doing, Greenie?" Newt asks instead. He's put on his second-in-command hat, though even without it, I don't think he ever stops feeling responsible for these boys.

Rob shrugs. "I'm good," he says slowly. "I like the gardens."

Zart claps him on the back. "And we're happy to have you," he says. "Better you than Evie, here. On her first day she hacked up half the vegetables."

"It was one rhubarb," I say patently. "Don't listen to him."

Rob looks up. His eyes are a muddied hazel colour and I smile at him.

"So…" he starts, sounding very uncertain. "I don't want to be rude, but I feel like I haven't really met you and, well…"

_You're a girl._

He doesn't need to finish that part.

It's believable, though, given I spent his first week in the Glade in pain and hiding.

"I'm Eva," I start with.

He nods. His cheeks colour a little. "I know that. You're mentioned a fair bit – part of being the only girl, I guess?"

"Or maybe I'm just the most fun to be around," I say. He's being nice, but I've never felt singled out for being a girl – not since my first day. And I like it like that.

Zart snickers at my words and Rob's colour deepens.

Lee drops onto the bench next to me. Apparently he's heard the conversation.

"She is a blast," he says, leaning in. "Threw a spike and nearly impaled Alby to a tree within two hours of being here."

I turn and gape at him. For starters, how does he know? And secondly – I'd rather he didn't make out like I'm some kind of loose cannon.

I've finished my dish, and I don't really think as I lift it and thwack Lee over the back of the head.

Maybe I _am_ a loose cannon.

He pitches forwards, just catching himself before face-planting his own breakfast. The dish makes a dull clanging sound off of his skull.

Zart drops his spoon. It hits the side of his dish at an angle and the egg on it goes flying. It slaps Jeff in the face and he topples backwards. Rob's face drains of colour.

Lee, Dan and Newt burst out laughing, and it takes me a second before I realise I've started, too. These moments are too rare.

"Oi," I say, calming down. "People are going to think I'm a lunatic."

Lee throws an arm around me, still cackling.

"You're the best, Eva," he says. "First person to hit me with a dish."

I'm not certain it's a title I'd have wanted for myself, but I could have been given worse ones.

I shake my head, smiling, as he lets me go and returns to his breakfast, snickering.

Zart, trying to breathe as he clutches his stomach, his spoon lying on the table, looks up at me.

"I kinda love you, Evie," he says.

And I don't have to look around the table at them, warmth flooding through my chest, to know I kinda love all of them, too.

…

The next week passes quickly.

I usually don't cross paths with Gally and the Builders, but for an entire afternoon the whole team as well as the Bricknicks can be seen on the field, trying to construct something that repeatedly collapses.

Half the Cooks including Stan sit outside the kitchen as they prepare vegetables for dinner, just so they can watch.

Jack arrives in the Medi Tent one morning with a nasty bruise on his leg – apparently from tripping over a rake.

Jeff gives him a salve while Clint insists it will need to be amputated.

The following day, one of the Bricknicks falls from their unstable contraption in the field and I have to make them stay on one of the pallets for the day. His name is Joe, and he hit his head hard enough that he's still seeing double by dinner time.

By the following morning he's back to work.

Things are quiet enough that I can escape to the Bloodhouse to feed all the animals, collect the eggs and milk the goats. I drop by the kitchens on the way back to hand the eggs and milk over to Frypan.

That evening, I join in on Field Games again.

I don't join in often. Newt doesn't, much, and I find I prefer to sit with him, or hang out with Frypan around Homestead than rush about on the field, but Zart drags me out to the others saying they're playing a game of Drop ball, and I need to have a go.

It was apparently designed by Alby and Nick, over two years ago.

Four hoops made from woven branches are dragged to four points of the game field and we split into four teams.

The aim, oddly, seems to be to drop the ball through your own team's hoop, and the other teams have to intercept and get the ball through their own. Which really means the whole game is a high speed, chaotic thing and you rarely know where the ball is, or where it's going, since no one wears team colours.

And I can't reach the hoops, so even if I am fast enough to outmanoeuvre the boys at times, I can't score points, because throwing it in doesn't count; you have to be touching it as it goes through.

Its fun; watching everyone run about, trying to duck and dive past the others and half the time forgetting who's on their team and who isn't. And in the end, Eric stands by our team hoop so he can lift me up high enough that I'm able to score one goal.

Because you essentially have three teams guarding each hoop, the game is rather more awkward to bring to an end, and the winning number of scores is just five.

Jackson scores through his team's hoop to close the game, and that's enough to exhaust everyone.

I feel a bit like I've been caught in the middle of a stampede as I drop down next to the fire and accept a jar of Brew from Newt – who looks just a bit too amused.

"Not doing that again," I mutter, letting the burn of the amber liquid chase away the aching.

Newt's expression cracks into one of mischief as he says wryly, "It's entirely your own fault."

And I feel a laugh burst out of me, recognising my own words from just days before. "I could go off you," I say, even as I smile into my jar.

"Nah," Newt says, and there's a strange softness to his voice that makes me look over at him. "You couldn't."

And he's right. But I don't tell him that. I ignore the fact that he knows it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Okay, I want to just go over the idea of the contraceptive quickly. As, obviously, there were no girls in Maze Runner, and Teresa certainly didn't mention anything, all of this is more of my theories. The books/film are set in the future, and with the outrageously advanced technology at WICKED's (WCKD's) disposal, implanting a contraceptive device that controls a menstrual cycle (eliminating it) into the girls doesn't seem that far fetched (since we're not far off currently). In fact, I kind of think it makes the most sense. It means less need for supplies, less stress and hygeine concerns (thinking of the sheer number of girls in Group B) Sending up crate loads of tampons and such is good for humour, but probably not practical. In Eva's case, it would also have been a precaution (make of that what you will, but I figure some of you know what I mean. If you don't, feel free to ask and I can respond in a pm). I hope this makes sense and is believable for you.
> 
> Here's also hoping the way it was handled read okay, too.
> 
> 2\. There's a few reasons that I quite like this chapter, and I won't go into all of them. One thing I did want to briefly mention was the evolving relationships. I'm sure many of you can see Eva and Newt's connection progressing, but I wanted to draw some attention to the very real friendship she has with him before that, and the friendships she has with the other boys. Whatever else is going on, I feel like the passing of time and the character dynamics are at the centre of this. I like that Eva can't pinpoint a time when the boys became her family, but there is this moment when she realises its already happened.
> 
> Maybe you see it differently? I always like hearing how others interpret things.
> 
> 3\. Drop ball is another of my wacky inventions. Don't ask me where I get this crap.
> 
> Chapter 11 - Teaser
> 
> My eyes lift across the darkening field to the Council Hall. There's a faint, flickering golden glow, just visible at the distance, between the branch walls.
> 
> I hope again that nothing's gone wrong.
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	11. Keepers and Construction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are some changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be happy to hear, its looking like the next chapter will be longer than the average to keep things flowing properly.
> 
> Enjoy!

We're less than two weeks away from another Box day when Newt drops by the Medi tent in the middle of the afternoon.

Jeff and I are, in theory, boiling berries and herbs for an experimental remedy. But while the water in the pan slowly bubbles over the small fire we've started, we've taken to trying to bounce woodchips into empty jars from across the room.

I flick one and it bounces off the edge of the workbench. Jeff flicks one and it clicks against the jar before landing in the fire.

We're not very good. But it passes the time.

"You both look busy," Newt comments as he steps into the room.

Jeff gives him a smile, unfazed by the faint note of sarcasm in his voice. "Hey, we're working," he says. "We've gotta sit here until it's at boiling point; might as well keep it interesting."

Newt turns his eyes to me and I hold up my hands.

"Don't look at me. I do as I'm told."

Jeff barks out a laugh and Newt looks nothing short of sceptical.

I throw a woodchip at the fire, and it crackles as it licks it up.

"What's up, Newt?" Jeff asks. "Need something?"

"Looking for Clint," he says.

"Just went to check on Joe," I supply. "Make sure his head's completely better. You could find him at the back of Homestead."

"When he's back can you just let him know that a Council Meeting's been called?" Newt says. "I've still got to find Gally."

I nod. "Sure. After supper?"

Newt nods back and Jeff frowns.

"Who called it?" he asks.

"Dan."

My eyebrows rise. "Is everything alright?"

Newt looks back at me, and I can tell he's as lost as we are. "I'm sure its fine. See you guys later."

He lets himself out.

I can't help wondering why Dan might call a meeting. I haven't been up to the Bloodhouse since the day before. Has there been an accident? Have they found something?

It doesn't occur to me that it could be something good.

A woodchip clips me on the ear and I turn.

Jeff points to the pan.

"I think we're there," he says.

The berries have turned to a deep purple-red goo that looks like a very thick sauce in the pan. It smells amazing.

We share a look.

Jeff lifts the pan and I douse the fire.

"I think this is better off with Fry," Jeff says. "The only kind of ailment this will fight is hunger."

…

One of the Track-Hoes turns up not long after we abandon our remedy experiment. Jeff hands me the pan to take to the Kitchens while he turns to tend to the latest injury.

So I pick up my satchel, balance the pan in my hand and start across Homestead.

All the Cooks are bustling around in their usual organised mania. Broth bubbles away near the hollowed out hearth and Stan is working on what looks like rabbit meat on the main worktable.

I decide not to stick around, so I hand over the pan, explaining very briefly that it might make a decent sauce, and then duck back out.

The Council Meeting that Dan called weighs on my mind still, so I turn my sights for the Bloodhouse. I need to collect the eggs and milk the goats anyway, so I might as well go now.

I knock on the doorframe of the butchery before looking into the hut.

"Eva? It's okay – we've finished for the day," Frankie calls from inside.

I'm the only one who knocks in this way. I'd still rather not see the actual slaughter if I can help it. Frankie is just scrubbing down the bench with a cloth.

"Hey," I say, moving into the room when I've been given the all clear. "Is Dan around?"

"Pens," Frankie jerks his head to the back. "Fixing wiring on one of the chicken runs."

"Thanks," I reply.

I move around him and head out the back.

When I get there, it's to find Dan and at least four others all awkwardly shuffling around in a weirdly crouched position with their arms outstretched and making little kissing noises like they're trying to attract cats.

The chicken run is open and at least seven of the hens are happily darting in every direction, relishing their freedom.

I shake my head, amused despite myself, and go to help in the round up.

It takes at least half an hour, a mouthful of feathers, one nasty scratch, falling through a fence post and tripping over a water feeder before they're all back in the repaired run.

By that time, I return to the Medi Tent to get on with things, and forget until later on that I never asked Dan about the Meeting.

…

Clint gets the message, and as the dishes are cleared away after supper, he gets up and quietly leaves the Mess hall with the other Keepers.

The rest of us are clearing up and starting the usual fire when someone mentions they can't find Winston.

At this point, there's only one place I think he could be.

My eyes lift across the darkening field to the Council Hall. There's a faint, flickering golden glow, just visible at the distance, between the branch walls.

I hope again that nothing's gone wrong.

…

Dan looks quite pleased with himself when the Keepers trek back through the dark to join the fire.

Gally doesn't look impressed, but he rarely does, so it doesn't say much. Alby is smiling as much as he ever does as he greets some of the other boys and picks up a jar of Brew. Frypan is beaming and Newt is rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when his mind is preoccupied.

Stan and Lee are sitting with me. Frypan heads for us with Zart and Newt in his wake.

"What happened?" Stan asks.

"Winston just got promoted," Frypan says.

We all gape.

The Keepers have been the same since I arrived, and from what I can figure, it's generally the person in the team who's been around the longest or knows the job best.

"Winston's Keeper?" Lee checks. He's starting to smile.

Zart nods. He's beaming, too. "Yeah. I think he's a little worried, but it's been settled. We voted."

"Alright!" Lee cheers. "Sorry, guys." He gets up and rushes straight over to the other Slicers, where he claps Winston on the back. There is a buzz of celebration from their corner of the camp.

"Where did it come from?" Stan asks.

Frypan and Zart sit on the log behind us and Newt takes his usual spot next to me, on the ground.

"Dan said all the Slicers agreed on it," Zart says. He shoots a look at me. "Apparently they asked you, too."

I remember Dan catching me in the chicken run a few days back and asking what I thought of Winston; if I thought he did the job well. He joked that he'd take over one day, and I remember saying he'd be good at it.

"I remember," I say. "Didn't know he was thinking of this, though."

Zart shrugs. "Anyway, Dan took it to the Council. Winston had to be there. The vote was passed."

"What happened?" I ask.

Obviously Winston was promoted, but not all the Keepers looked happy about it.

"Gally had a bit of a sour look on it," Frypan admits. "Said being a Keeper was earned through hard work and time in the Glade. But he was overruled."

"Didn't take it too well, then?" I spot him with the other Builders. Most of the lingering annoyance has left and he looks relaxed as he laughs with the others.

"He'll get over it," Newt says, joining the conversation at last. "It's the principle of it more than anything. He's a good guy, really. Just has very set ideas about what makes a community work and what doesn't."

Zart stands up, clapping Frypan's shoulder. "Well, I'm off. Rob still can't choke down Gally's Brew yet – we've got to work on that. Night, guys."

He ambles away to the other Track-Hoes and I lean against Newt. He braces his hand into the ground and turns his body into me, to better support us both.

"How's Dimitri doing?" I ask.

I can just see him through the fire, standing with Doug and Ben. Since joining the Runners, a shadow seems to have been cast over him, and he hasn't laughed as much as he used to – not that I was ever that close to him.

And after Justin, I'm a little afraid to get close to any of the Runners more than I already have.

"He's doing well, according to Minho," Newt says. His voice is right by my ear. "Alby was talking to them not long ago. It sounds like there are some things going on, but they're still puzzling it out."

"Why?" Frypan asks, and I twist my head to look at him. "You want back in?"

"No," I say without hesitating.

The first day I spent in the Maze, I missed the Great Goat Escape. But it's not just that. I can't have that life; the same life that drove Newt to jump from a wall.

Fry smiles in a very quiet way, and there's something very knowing in his expression. It feels like I said far more than 'no'.

"It's not that," I continue. "It's just that he's been doing it a while now. I guess…I just hoped he was coping."

"He is," Newt says. There's something poignant in his tone, and I somehow know what he means.

No one will let him not cope. After Newt's attempt, the Runners all watch out for each other that much more.

"Brew anyone?"

We look up.

Dan is standing to the side cradling four jars. We all take one and he sits down with us.

"Congrats on your demotion," I say, smiling.

Dan snorts, "Thanks, Evie." His eyes turn to the Slicers across the fire. "Winston will do great. I just wanted to focus on the job again, you know – not handling the team. But it's all good; Lee insisted that if Winston took over, you kept your half-job with the animals. Winston said he wouldn't have it any other way."

"Good to know," I say.

He raises his jar, the liquid sloshing about inside. "Cheers everyone."

We all toast and knock back mouthfuls.

I've learned to handle Gally's secret recipe. It burns down my throat with each sip, but unlike the early days, when the burn felt like being flayed from the inside, it now has the sensation of burning away the bad.

If it tastes like that to everyone, no wonder Greenies go to lengths to learn to tolerate it.

…

The Lookout Tree has been revamped.

The unlikely looking construct the Builders and Bricknicks had been collaborating on – and half failing at – turned out to be a series of new platforms and ladders that have taken a handful of days and a handful of injuries to be rigged into place on the Tree.

The old rope ladder is gone and the top platform reinforced. There's now fixed ladders and about three different levels up to the top.

It looks very good; a lot more useful than what it used to be. More than a few of us joke that it will be far more used now that it's easier to climb and move around on.

It was Gally's idea.

Winston supplies the Kitchen with a fat goose to throw a small feast in thanks.

…

I finish whittling the silver birch branch the following morning.

I've been working on it in the early hours or late at night. The tiny knife I've hidden away did all the work. It's a very simple shape; a long bow with a tiny groove for an arrow, a slope cut in for a hand to grasp the middle and tapering ends with notches for a string.

It flexes a little, but is still quite solid. I just hope it can bear the tension of being strung.

I have to let myself into one of the storage huts before first light that morning to find the ball of tight elastic line that the clothing rig was cut from. I cut away a length of it and make back for my hammock.

The bow is still a secret.

…

The top of the new Lookout Tree is a relaxing place to be.

When jobs pack up for the day, I duck out of the Medi Tent and jog across the field to scale the ladders that are just two days old.

The platforms are solid underfoot, making a comforting hollow sound with each step across them. The rails surrounding the top make a structure like a bird's nest on a ship, and they creak lightly in the breeze.

There isn't much wind at all in the Glade on most days. Now and then a breeze can reach the field, but thanks to the towering walls, it's quite a sheltered environment. The draught at the top of the tree is just a little bit stronger, enough to blow my hair back off my shoulders and flutter through my thin sweater.

"Hey," Eric says from behind me.

I twist around, gripping the rail in front of me but remain sitting, my legs swinging into open air.

Eric shoves a crate up through the trapdoor ahead of him and pulls his body onto the platform after it.

"Sorry," he continues. "Didn't spot you up here."

"Its okay," I shrug. "What's with the box?"

He beams.

"Games."

My face must fall at just the thought of Zart inventing something else, because Eric laughs.

"It's an old one," he says, which is only a little reassuring. "They're rocks."

I'm not sure I want to ask.

He pushes the crate to a corner, and it definitely does seem to be full of grey rocks about the size of someone's fist, then he drops down beside me, letting his legs swing free over the side of the platform, too.

"This is pretty cool now," he says.

I half laugh. "Didn't you help build it?"

He shrugs bashfully. "Yeah, but I was mainly putting the ladders together. I haven't been up since it was finished."

"It definitely feels safer than the old one," I agree.

"Well, that's not difficult," Eric says. "Gally's saying we need to consider more space for hammocks, too," he continues. "I think that's our next project."

He nudges me gently and climbs back to his feet. "Anyway, I'll see you later."

"Sure," I say, absently.

He ducks back down the trapdoor, and I watch him head off across the field for Homestead, but my mind is stuck on the last thing he said.

We need more space for hammocks.

No matter how many people we lose, there's always a new arrival, and – thankfully – we don't lose that many. The population in the Glade is steadily on the rise, and it brings up far too many questions.

Will there become a time that it simply can't sustain so many inhabitants? What will the creators do then? Intentionally kill some off? Remove some in another way? Or just keep observing?

But perhaps more worryingly, I can see the passing of time in the shape of Homestead; clearer up here than on the ground. The cluster of well made huts, all with their own purpose from the hammock shelters, to the kitchen and mess hall, and the numerous small storage shacks.

It's clearer than ever that this place, however unwillingly, has been home to some of my friends for years.

They've made it their own, built on it, formed a society, and are constantly changing and upgrading.

It sets a chill into my chest.

What if that is part of what the creators want?

What if we're meant to grow up and grow old here?

_Don't be stupid_ , I think to myself. Whatever this is, far too much has gone into it – time, money, technology, planning – just for a bunch of people to watch a bunch of kids grow up. There's something bigger at work. We just don't know what, yet.

Hurriedly, I climb down from the Tree and head for the Kitchens. Frypan and the other Cooks will still be around, and they never fail to take my mind off of things.

I figure I could use that about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. A lot of this chapter is my own theories, so please bear with me. First, something someone said to me indicated that the weapons in the MR book are generally kept locked up, or just used by Keepers. I don't know if that's right. So again, this is an instance where it's very much the movie-verse. It looked like weapons were used frequently just as tools - like machetes, knives, shovels, pitch forks and so on, which is why, though Eva hasn't told anyone, her making her own weapon, and possibly learning to use it isn't exactly against any rules. Second, I don't know if the Lookout Tree is specifically talked about, but I wanted it to be upgraded in this way mainly to demonstrate the passing of time and the better skill sets of the Gladers. Its one of those little things that makes you think about how life is evolving within the Maze. I thought, anyway.
> 
> 2\. Third, finally, the changing of Keepers (this deserves its own bullet point). This was planned from the start. Another little way I wanted to look into change and development, this time within the community itself. Winston is Keeper when Thomas arrives, but I liked the idea that he wasn't always. That someone else was first and it was a group decision to elect him into the role. Dan wants to step aside, Winston is happy to take on the role, so they discuss it as a team, and then have to get an okay from the Council. And that's really it, a chance to explore how decisions might have been made, how positions are elected and so on. Its all about the way of life. So, on that point, I do want to thank any of you who started reading this going 'What? Who's Dan? Winston's Keeper, Dummy!' but had enough faith in me (maybe) to just keep reading.
> 
> Hope you're all still enjoying it. Things get fun next chapter (not that they aren't already, of course, but I do like the next one), so stick around!
> 
> Chapter 12 - Teaser
> 
> "I knew exactly what I had to do, within minutes of waking up in the Box, to break apart a hinge and let a goose out, but I don't even know what colour my eyes are."
> 
> Winston looks up in surprise.
> 
> "You don't? You never asked anyone?"
> 
> -To be posted at the end of the week-


	12. Impulsive Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is falling stuff and bodily injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A summary that will very much please my cousin.
> 
> Hope you're all still enjoying it! Each and every kudos, bookmark, comment and even just those who stop by to read mean the world to me, so thank you to all of you! Especially the amazing commenters who make me look forward to posting each chapter thanks to their thoughtful feedback.

Winston settles into his role as Keeper as easily as if he'd been meant for it.

I sit with him at the end of his first week as we both clean up the Butchery, moping down the work benches and lining up the knives. The sun is falling low and golden beams of light filter through the branch walls. Motes of dust swirl in the paths they cut through the peaceful shadows.

"It's different than I thought," Winston confesses as we work. "Dan explained it, and I saw what he had to do, but I guess you don't really know until you do it yourself."

"Different how?" I ask.

It's been a quiet day. Even the usual sound of goofing about from the Gardens a little way off is muted. Winston sent the others off to the Kitchen with one of the ducks for supper, instructing them to finish early.

It was just him, tidying up, when I finished in the pens for the day, and I stuck around to help.

Winston sinks onto one of the stools. He rests his elbows on the work table. I set a cleaver down and face him on my own stool, folding my arms on the opposite side of the table, despite all the old blood stains that have become part of the wood's pattern.

"Like how I'm responsible for telling Newt or Alby about any incidents, or if something needs fixing. I'm responsible for working the rotas, so no one does the same job for weeks in a row. I need to get reports from you, Jeff or Clint if someone has to head for the Medi Tent. I have to settle disputes – not that we've had any; they're all great guys."

"You're a great guy, too," I say. "And Dan thinks you're doing well. I guess it's natural to worry about it."

"I _was_ worried," he agrees. "My first day, I was all over the place, but I like it. I like having more to focus on; makes me feel like I'm helping a bit more."

This is why Dan chose him. Winston likes being occupied, and he feels better when he's doing something.

"I'm learning a lot about myself," Winston says, starting to laugh. "I guess everyone is in that position. It's not like we knew anything before we came here."

Sensing that Winston's confession of insecurity is over, I pick up the rag and continue to wipe down the table. I laugh.

"Join the club," I say. "Everything I know about myself, I learned in this place. I like knives-" I nod to the rows of them, all cleaned to use tomorrow. "-I like animals, and apparently blood doesn't freak me out unless it's my own, or someone's threatening a bunny."

Winston chuckles. "Frankie practically said he'd light my hammock on fire if I skinned White-Foot after I became Keeper."

My eyes widen and my jaw drops.

This I did not know.

"Makes you wonder who you were before, doesn't it?" Winston asks. "I'm here nowhere near as long as Dan but he says I'm better with the knives. And I just…I know where to cut to let a duck die peacefully. But I don't know how old I am – not really. I don't know if I had a brother, or a sister. And that's okay, but it makes you wonder. You know?"

I do.

"Yeah," I say. I drop the rag into the bucket of water and stretch my arm out. "I knew exactly what I had to do, within minutes of waking up in the Box, to break apart a hinge and let a goose out, but I don't even know what colour my eyes are."

Winston looks up in surprise.

"You don't? You never asked anyone?"

I shrug.

"No," I say. "I didn't really think about it, and when I did it just…didn't seem important."

"Well, I can fix that one," Winston says, smiling. "Look up."

Biting back my answering smile, I look him in the eyes expectantly.

"Grey, I think," he says. He squints. "A bit of amber; it might be the light."

"Dark brown," I say back. "In case you were wondering."

"Thanks," Winston says dryly. He picks up the bucket and sets it down in the corner. "Come on; let's pack up."

…

That evening, I manage to string the bow.

I have to wedge the end against the wall and lean all my weight into it, but I see that as a good thing; if it strung too easily, surely it would be too weak?

I'm glad to see it holds in a neat curve with the string attached, and it does flex nicely. The draw is strong, but not so tight that I struggle – I had to retie the string a couple of times to achieve it.

But I can hear the wood creak as I pull back on the draw each time. It's not a weapon that will last the ages. Thankfully, it doesn't have to.

I try to ignore the fact that it doesn't feel familiar in my hands the way the knives do, or the syringe gun I touched a grand total of once.

…

"Is there something you don't know about yourself?" I ask Newt the following day. "Something that you would know if you weren't here; if you had your memories."

He looks up at me. His grip is firm on the handle of his machete, which is buried into the side of a log.

I wonder absently if I envy the fact that he's found that one weapon that fits him so easily to be an extension of him, when the one I made still feels a little like a stranger.

Frankie had already sorted the animals by the time I finished in the Medi Tent after lunch, so I caught up to Newt and have been pitching in with his afternoon chores. Today he's helping the Builders.

They're constructing another Hammock Hut, next to the current one, so there's more space for everyone. The main support posts for the roof are in, and branches are being hammered in all around to start forming walls. Most of them are working on the roof today.

Some boys stand balanced on piles of empty crates, some sit on the interlocking grid of branches overhead they're slowly assembling.

Newt seems to contemplate the question even as he turns back around and continues hacking. Behind him, two boys pass up a long beam to three others, who guide it into position.

"Like what?"

"Like…" I return to the topic of yesterday. It was that conversation that prompted me to ask. "I didn't know what colour my own eyes are."

"Grey," Newt says, without looking up.

Given I know his are dark, earthy brown without even thinking about it, I can't really find it in me to be surprised. I _am_ surprised that I never asked.

"Well I should have just asked you months ago," I say. "Winston told me yesterday. Couldn't decide between grey or amber."

Newt looks up again.

"Grey," he repeats. There's a small smile dancing along his lips. "They're light, so they pick up other colours; a bit green when it's sunny; amber at night by the fire."

 _That explains that_.

"Timber!" Henry yells.

One of the beams goes crashing down, raising dust as it hits and causes a small dent in the earth.

"Shorter one!" Henry says. Eric helps to pass up a new branch.

"Do you know what colour yours are?" I ask when it looks like everything is okay.

"Brown," Newt says. "Alby told me, years ago." He stabs the machete into the ground, hesitates and then says, "I'd know if I'm left or right handed. If I had my memories."

"Ambidextrous," I say, easily. "Try again."

He gives me an odd look.

"What?" I ask.

"I just…nevermind."

"You're more dominant with your right," I say, before he can drop it. "But I've seen you eat left handed, and the time you hit Justin – you swung that shovel from the left, not the right."

I remember all too clearly the way the tool had been balanced in his hands, just moments after taking Justin down. I never saw the hit, but I saw enough to know Newt had run out of the hut behind me and just acted, not thinking about which way to swing, just how quickly and effectively he could do it.

"I guess it would have been nice to know for sure though," I say. "Imagine being a kid and being able to colour in scrapbooks with both hands at once."

Newt's eyes widen, and I can't work out for a moment what I've said to cause it.

"What?"

He visibly hesitates, expression flashing from wariness to bashfulness for a second before he mutters, "I can draw."

I feel my jaw drop. Admittedly, he hasn't said much, but the way he did say it leads me to think there's a bit more to it than being able to doodle stick figures, and I've never even seen a hint of this talent before.

"Since when?" I ask.

He opens his mouth, but is overridden as Gally strides over to us.

"Are you two done talking?" he says. He only looks slightly annoyed, which in his terms mean he's in a downright cheerful mood. "We need this in to support the centre of the roof."

"We're done," I say, holding up my hands in surrender.

We're so not done, but there will be time for this later.

Newt gives the log one more solid hack for good measure then rams the machete back into its sheath over his shoulder.

"And that's done," he adds. "Get some more hands on this."

While I'm not the safest around construction sites, I am still meant to be helping, so I at least follow them into the skeleton of the new hut as five boys carry in the log. They tip the end of it into the round hole that's been dug out in the centre.

I help Henry down from the roof as they slowly pivot the thick trunk upright until it catches the branches in the roof and snags.

The roof creaks.

"Right, get this shovelled in," Gally instructs, pointing to the pile of earth around the hole. "Secure the beam. You three; fetch the straw. I want to get insulation on this before supper."

He organises the team with an undeniable efficiency. Eric sets to work, shovelling the earth back in around the base of the supporting log.

The roof still creaks above us.

"It won't be done by supper," Newt says.

Gally turns to him. "Who's the expert here?" he asks. There's something fierce in his tone, but I've seen his moods enough to know that he's not actually being confrontational.

"There's only a couple more hours to go before the sun's down," Newt says reasonably. He's able to speak to Gally in a way most people can't. "You just don't want to be working in the rafters when it's dark."

The roof lets out a cracking sound, and I see a shadow move in the corner of my eye.

_Wait. Not a shadow._

It takes me less than a second to realise it's one of the beams in the ceiling grid.

The end has come loose and it swings down, at least fifteen centimetres thick and over seven feet long. It aims right for where Gally and Newt stand.

"Crap," is all I can say.

I race forwards and slam into Newt's side.

He wasn't expecting it, and he moves more than I thought he would, but I'm still not strong enough to move us both clear of the beam's path.

The end of the branch slams with the full force of its pendulum weight into my leg and it buckles.

A scream traps in my throat as fiery heat pulses up into my hip.

Gally leaps backwards, his face paling. I feel Newt move; he's no longer pressing into me. I think he yells my name. I hear Henry shout. There's a clang as Eric drops the spade.

I think I may black out for a moment, but there's no true darkness, just a strange dimness in my surroundings before I realise I'm lying on the floor.

Then everything flies back into focus.

Including the shockwaves of pain.

Henry is looking over at me with deep concern, even as he helps some of the others, who've suddenly rushed forwards, to take down the dangerously swaying beam.

Gally is conducting them. I see his hand shake as he points at the door, and he quickly curls it into a fist to hide it.

Newt is knelt next to me.

His eyes are wide, flooded with fear and his fingers are unsteady as he turns my head towards him.

"Eva. Eva – look at me." His voice is edgy.

I fix my eyes on him. My head's fine, but my leg feels like its pinned under a tree. My hip isn't so bad now, the pain of it dulled, but the whole limb throbs and I can feel the muscles shaking.

"Looking," I tell him.

"Why the bloody hell did you do that?" he asks, sounding a little bit furious.

I raise an eyebrow and slowly, gingerly sit up. "Uh, because a tree decided you were a piñata?"

Newt gives me a dark look.

I ignore it.

I carefully get to my feet, putting all my weight on my good leg. Newt grips my elbow; he doesn't look happy.

"She alright?"

Gally comes striding across the shell of the hut. Though he looks angry, the tone in his voice is similar to Newt's. He's worried.

It's just the three of us, with Henry hovering at the doorway. I can hear the others going over the construction plan outside in harried mutters, trying to work out what caused the weakness.

"You alright?" Gally asks me instead, when he stops in front of me.

"Bruised," I say. "I'm fine."

Newt scoffs. " _Fine_. You can't bloody stand."

Just to test the theory, I try to put weight on the other leg.

Pain radiates up from just above my knee. I bite down on the noise that rushes up my throat, but it still fights out in a single muted cry. The joint collapses.

Newt catches me.

My fingers twist into his shirt as I find my balance again; without me putting any weight on the leg, the pulsing sensation is far more bearable. I carefully let him go when I'm sort of standing.

His hands remain fixed around my arms like he's worried I'll drop the second he moves away.

"I'll _be_ fine, then," I say instead, since he's apparently right. "Better that I'm bruised than you're in a coma. It was going to take out your spine."

I slowly twist, convincing him to let me go.

I'm not broken.

His arms fold across his chest instead. He's still glaring.

"You should head on back," Gally says. It's the nicest he's ever sounded. "Get the Med-Jacks to look at it."

"I've got it," Newt says. His eyes don't move off of me.

Gally shoots the two of us a look and he pulls an expression that says he wants no part of it.

"Henry," he says instead. "Tell the others we're quitting early."

Henry leaves.

I tentatively try to put pressure on my leg again.

It still can't take my full weight – the muscles tremor with fatigue and soreness – but it doesn't completely drop out and I smile.

"Don't do that again. Not bloody ever," Newt says. He sounds serious.

"Oh, shut up," I tell him lightly.

Gally quickly brushes his hand over his mouth. It's still not fast enough to hide his sudden grin.

Newt's expression softens just a little.

"Go ahead," Gally says. He waves to the door, still covering his mouth with the other hand. "Later. Be careful, Eva."

I don't even remember the last time he called me by name.

I nod. "So that means no dying, right?"

Gally actually smirks. "I think Newt would be unbearable if you did."

Newt shakes his head at the both of us. "Let's go," he says.

His arm curls around my waist, and I have to lean on him so I can hobble from the hut.

The boys outside have headed off already. The ready-cut piles of straw and branches needed to finish the new hut are arranged tidily in their place.

We make slow progress as we head across Homestead. It feels like an absurd three-legged race as we shuffle along.

"You can't walk," Newt says to me, as I hiss through my breath yet again when I try to use my damaged leg. At least he no longer looks so ticked off.

He stops walking and his grip on my waist shifts.

"If you try to pick me up, we are going to have problems," I tell him in no uncertain terms. "Keep walking. Or I will hop back to Homestead on my own."

Newt lets out a long, aggravated sigh, but when I glance up at him, there's a spark of amusement in his eyes that I now realise I've missed since I pushed him out of the way.

He hugs my waist again, taking my weight, and continues walking without a word.

…

I make it back to the Medi Tent.

Jeff takes one look at me before making me sit down and yelling for Clint to come inside.

Clint takes one look at me before declaring my whole leg will need to be amputated.

I take one look at the pair of them and tell them I'm fine.

Newt doesn't look at anyone as he says I'm not.

"What the shuck happened?" Jeff demands.

"She leapt into the way of a branch that fell from the roof of the new Hammock hut," Newt says.

"What he left out of that explanation," I add cheerfully. "Is that if I hadn't, it would have knocked him out."

"She can't walk," Newt says, ignoring me.

" _She_ is bruised but not dying," I interject.

"Evie," Jeff implores me. I know what his expression says.

_We need to look at it._

I'm not going to argue that. I nod. "Hang on." I get up and use the work bench, then the partitions to support me as I hobble out of the medicine bay and into one of the side rooms with one of the pallets.

I very carefully peel off my jeans, realising as I do that the fabric was pressing into the tender skin more than I anticipated. It won't be fun putting those back on.

I throw off my sweater and pick up one of the spares kept in the room. A light weight pale grey one.

As a guy's hoodie, its large on me – I've estimated I'm probably only five foot two or three – and it settles more like a tunic, which I find I like quite a lot.

I pull my hair out from under it, and it fans over the lowered hood. The neck is wide, just resting on my shoulders; the sleeves cover my hands almost entirely and the hem rests halfway down my thigh so that I can already see the bruise forming in the skin above my knee.

I didn't even try to remove my boots – hiking ones that came up in the box with Rob and I've been wearing ever since I scuffed my sneakers through.

I stumble back to the others.

Newt's still there, which is no great surprise. I am surprised to see both Alby and Dan, though.

"Eva!" Dan says, as I come around the corner. "What-Holy…Ouch."

"Thanks," I say blithely. "That makes me feel better."

He holds out a hand and I accept the help to sit on a stool.

Newt leans forward on his. I'm not sure how I should feel about it when his eyes fix on my leg and the darkening mark that's at least a hand span in width.

"What happened?" Dan asks. "Clint just rushed past me a second ago saying you couldn't walk."

Clint, in the corner, shrugs.

"I'm _bruised_ ," I stress, yet again. "Everyone needs to chill out. I'm sure you guys have had plenty of accidents."

"Stay still, Eva," Jeff tells me.

I focus on him, as I hear Newt retelling the story to Dan and Alby, though at least this time he admits the branch might have gotten him if I hadn't moved.

Jeff's fingers gently press into my skin, starting just at the hem of the hoodie, and working down. He's still a good few inches from the mark when I flinch away from the pressure.

My breath comes out as a strangled gasp.

Newt stops talking.

Jeff starts at my calf instead and works up, but at my knee, I flinch away again. Everyone is silent as he grips my boot and flexes my leg in and then coaxes it straight.

It throbs, but it stretches out.

He sits back, balanced in a crouch on the balls of his feet and lets out a breath.

"What is it?" Alby asks straight away.

"Badly bruised," Jeff confirms. "Probably torn a bit of muscle but at the very least, caused bleeding under the skin. It'll heal, but it'll take a few days; maybe a week. You should keep moving it, trying to apply pressure, but don't force it. Keep the workload light."

"Thanks, Doc," I say.

"Looks like you're keeping your leg," Clint says.

I laugh. "That's kind of you."

Alby rests a hand on my shoulder. "Take it easy, okay?" he says to me. "Get better."

"I'm taking on the animal pens," Dan says. "I'll clear it with Winston."

Alby glances at Newt, like he wants to say something else, but instead he nods. "We'll see you lot at supper. Dan."

Dan pats my arm and follows him out.

Newt's eyes are fixed on the ground, his fingers flexing; both signs I know by heart that mean he's lost in his mind, thinking over something too hard.

Clint pushes Jeff ahead of him. "We've got to pick up some bits from the Deadheads," he says. "Be back in a second."

They clear out.

"I'd do it again," I say, seriously, as soon as they've ducked out of the hut.

Newt's eyes level on me. The anger that I saw earlier is gone. What's in them is more painful than that; the haunting of something that hasn't happened, and a certainty that runs deep.

"And you know I would," I finish. "You don't get to be angry. Not when you'd have done exactly the same thing; or would you have watched it crush _me_?"

He wouldn't have.

We both know it.

"I'm not angry," he says, and I'm not sure if it is the truth.

He slowly stands. He takes just two steps until he's right in front of me and I look up. He leans down, his hand settling against my neck, and kisses my forehead. It's fleeting, gentle, somehow helping to numb the throbbing of my leg, and then he's standing straight again, arm sliding around my waist and half lifting me from the stool.

"Come on," he mutters. "Clothes back on and then I'll take you to the Kitchen."

He doesn't mention the strangely affectionate action, so I follow his lead. I wave my hand in front of his eyes, the too-long sleeve flopping about. "This _is_ clothes," I say. "I'm not putting jeans back on over this leg. Let's just go to the Kitchens."

He hesitates. Reluctance flickers in his expression, and then he nods. We hobble out of the Medi Tent and towards Homestead.

…

That night, Gally actually stops to check on me by the fire.

We'll never be best friends, but I'm thankful that he doesn't seem to actively dislike me anymore.

I have a flash of realisation when he walks away.

I love these people like they were my family – because they're the only family I've ever known. But this place…its my home because its everything safe and familiar, but I was still sent here. No matter how content we can be inside the walls, no matter what life we build here, it's not truly ours because it was forced on us.

This is the view that many of the Gladers take - Alby, Minho, Frypan, Zart…It's why the Runners spend whole days, constantly searching despite constant failure.

But there's the other side.

There are the Gladers who cannot live by constantly looking for answers and solutions; the ones who stay sane by finding happiness in this small world and accepting it as a true home.

Gally is one of them.

As a Builder and one of the earliest boys to the Glade, he's been a part of building the community, from the structure of the teams to the homes and huts themselves. He doesn't wait and hope and search for away out as others do; he roots himself in the life he's living now.

Maybe that's why he perceives threats to that life; to the system, so differently to others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. So glad to finally get to this part. I like this chapter. First off, we finally know what colour Eva's eyes are, so now I'm curious to know if you imagined them another colour, or just didn't think about it at all.
> 
> 2\. Newt is a bit of an artist in my head. Don't ask me why, but the more I think about it, and the more I wrote, the more it just fell into place. It was actually one of those things that I knew about my version of him, but didn't actually come up in the story, and I felt that wasn't right, so edits were made some time ago to throw that in. The topic is cut off here, but maybe it'll crop up again...
> 
> 3\. I like Gally in this, too. I know he's a real git in the film but I feel like a lot of that is his animosity towards Thomas, which obviously isn't a factor yet. Plus, he's one of the older Gladers; he wouldn't have spent the last three years being quite so angry all the time. So this is where more of my thoughts and characterization comes in. He's not a 'bad' person, and he's certainly not evil. He's a scared boy, responsible for aspects of their daily survival and the lives of others, and he just copes with that pressure differently to characters like Frypan or Zart. So I liked this chance to bring him forward a bit; he keeps a stern face a lot, but things do scare him, and things do amuse him. But like all the others, hopefully you'll see him evolve as we progress.
> 
> Also - sorry if that last scene feels a little broken off. It fitted better here than at the start of the next chapter, thanks to the time lapse, but it was a bit of a change of focus, so I'm sorry if you felt that.
> 
> Chapter 13 - Teaser
> 
> "You mean like the wrestling Ring?" I ask.
> 
> "No," Dan shakes his head. "Well, yeah – kind of. Not actually taking part, but if one of us could teach you some basics, at least that's something."
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	13. Into the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is rain and an arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: sorry its a bit late. I'd hoped to post earlier today, but life interferred, and then I ended up adding an entire scene, which argued with me about how it was going to be written. But here we go!

I'm stuck with sit-down jobs for the next two days.

I spend an entire day sat in a wheelbarrow with the Track-Hoes, having Rob push me around the gardens as I'm needed for things like holding twine, shelling peas or cleaning carrots. The odd jobs keep my hands busy and I'm able to entertain myself watching the boys fight through the still growing corn as they water it.

The following day – still banned from Medic duty and caring for the animals – Frypan and Stan keep a watchful eye on me as I sit by the hearth in the Kitchen, stirring broths, skinning potatoes and dicing up peppers. They keep me occupied with the usual chatter.

I borrowed a couple more of the oversized hoodies from the Medi Tent and hacked up a pair of old jeans I found in a store hut, making a set of shorts. I've been watching the bruise on my leg fly through a rainbow of colours.

It's a pretty horrific purple-green combination as the Cooks start to lay out supper.

"You didn't think to yell at him?" Frypan asks, chuckling away to himself as he cuts up a beautifully spit-roasted chicken. He's asked for the full story again – third time in one day – and is still asking questions about it.

I stab a piece of pepper particularly violently.

"By the time I yelled and he looked up and I pointed and he turned around – he'd have been comatose," I say. "I just…"

"-Shoved him out of the way," Frypan says, when my voice tails off.

"He was really angry," I remember.

Frypan shakes his head, the spoon going still in his pot of broth. "Nah," he says. "He was really _worried_. You scared him, Evie."

I give him a dubious look. "Really? How is that possible? Don't you remember Justin? He scratched me, chased me through the wood and actually wanted to kill me before Newt took him out. He just made sure I got bandaged up and we all moved on."

Newt told me he'd mentioned to Alby about our theory of there being a switch; that I replaced someone called Adam. But they decided to keep it quiet so no one worried. That conversation was just between us.

Frypan chuckles again, but I don't fully get what's so funny this time.

"Evie," he says, patiently like talking to a ten year old. "You just said it. When Justin tried to attack you, Newt smashed him with a shovel. He was protecting you. He did what he did to keep you safe.

"But this time…you did this to keep _him_ safe. There's nothing he could have done to stop you getting hurt, because you did it for him, and that's what scared him."

"What an idiot," I mutter, though that does explain a few things.

Frypan chuckles again.

I still don't get the joke.

Stan pulls another chicken out of the fire next to us. He holds out the spit as he crosses the room. "Last one."

I carefully stand up. My leg is strong enough for me to stumble about on my own, and I'm working on using it properly each time.

"I'm going to head over to the Infirmary," I say. "Catch up with Clint and Jeff. See you guys soon."

They both nod, allowing me to hobble out of the hut without interference.

I work my way into the late afternoon sun and I hear Stan's voice inside.

"They still in denial?"

I hear Frypan's laugh again.

"Stanny boy, I don't think they even realise. Grab the herb bowl, would you?"

I shake my head and let it go. I'm not sure what they're on about, and I'm not sure I want to know.

…

Two days later, it rains.

I hobble in from the animal pens as fast as I can – my leg still relearning to take my weight – and join the Slicers in the Butchery. It quickly becomes packed as half the Track-Hoes file under the roof with us, as we're closer than running for Homestead.

Its early afternoon, and the rest of the day's work is quickly called off.

It's heavy.

The Butchery roof holds, but puddles form in the two doorways and the sun is lost in a grey sky. The field looks sad and hazy through the slanting downpour.

I only have one other memory of rain; soft light and water drops pinging into tin buckets. The world didn't seem quite as forlorn, then.

Zart and half his team empty their pockets of pea pods, shelling them on the table and starting to divide them amongst themselves. Within minutes, having borrowed wishbones that the boys keep when they prepare the birds, they're involved in what looks like another Glader-invented game.

They're halfway through an intense betting round when Dan ducks inside, trying to stay some semblance of dry under a Hessian square of cloth.

He shakes his head and water flies everywhere, making Gladers dodge quickly away from him in complaint. He took the goat's milk down to the Kitchen for me, so I wouldn't have to go.

"Alby's in the Mess with Fry, Tim and Gally's lot," Dan reports. "Said to just wait it out."

Winston gives him a brotherly clap on the shoulder.

I let myself get dragged into a wishbone competition against Jack.

I don't know what you're meant to wish for, and all I can think about as we both pull is the poor bird it once belonged to.

It snaps cleanly.

Jack wins and I'm left turning the broken piece in my fingers, laughing as he collects his winnings – five peas - from everyone who bet on me.

It's a ridiculous game. But that seems fitting.

I give up my seat so Lee can lean in and have a go, and instead shuffle myself to the edge of the hut.

I've not seen much of it, and spent even less time in it, but I know I like the rain. Something about seeing the Glade so still and the way it falls in sheets feels soothing.

Something falls on my shoulders, and I jump.

Dan laughs, catching my wrist to tug me back under the roof and I realise he's thrown the Hessian fabric over me. He rubs his hands together, smiling, and nods to the scratchy cloth.

"It won't do much, but better than nothing."

I smile, "Thanks."

He nods and turns back to the others, and its only as he walks away that I realise he already has a winning piece of wishbone stuck behind his ear.

My smile grows.

_Dork._

But I turn back to the doorway and in an instant I realise two things.

I want to be somewhere else.

Dan gave me the cloth so I could go.

I shoot a look back over my shoulder. I love these guys, but right now, a memory is calling me. Dan will tell them; no one will worry.

I jump over the puddle, feel irrationally light-hearted as I tug the sheet over my head, and make my way into the rain.

…

By the time I reach the Council Hall, I'm soaked.

And there are voices from inside, which I hadn't thought about. I figured everyone was in Homestead.

I duck around the door.

The Runners, Newt, Billy and Jackson are all there. The latter two are sprawled over the curved steps and carry on conversation whilst staring at the ceiling. All the Runners still look a little damp. Newt is sat on one of the steps, leant forward on his elbows looking more laid back than I'd have expected. Thanks to the roof being filled in, there's no dripping, no rivulets forming across the ground.

They look up in surprise as I file in.

"Hey," Newt greets, apparently on reflex. "What-…did you _walk_ here?"

I can hear the faint note of exasperation in his voice, along with something else softer and indefinable. I hobble pointedly towards him.

"Well I didn't run," I say. "What are all you guys doing here?"

I see Newt's expression twist into confusion as Minho replies, "Nearest cover when we raced back through the Doors. It don't rain out there, but we saw the sky. Those two were here first." He nods to the Baggers, who throw me lazy waves.

"And you?" I ask, dropping down next to Newt.

"Came to find them. Brought supplies," he says succinctly, nodding towards a few slices of bread and a blanket set down in the middle.

He pulls the rough, itchy hessian from over my shoulders, and I let it go willingly, feeling my hair fall forwards; heavy with the rain. It drips languidly onto my sweater.

Dan was right; it really didn't do much, but I felt more protected.

Newt hesitates, then turns to the side and hands me over another dry blanket.

It's only then that I realise Ben's got a similar one around his neck, and there's a fourth one at Doug's feet.

So I sit quietly, in the dry blanket and try to wring my hair out as Doug and Ben return to an inane conversation about bears and Billy starts humming out of tune.

"You didn't think anyone would be here," Newt says, very quietly after long moments just listening to the easy chatter and the rain.

I glance at him. I shrug. "Didn't really think that far," I admit, voice just as low so we don't interrupt the others. "I just wanted to run into the rain and I came here."

He shakes his head, a smile pulling at his mouth, and I know he's a little amused and exasperated – mainly because he's still bothered about my leg.

"Obviously I didn't run," I repeat, stretching out my limb and twisting it so I can see the fading bruise. All the days of wearing shorts while it heals have tanned my skin lightly, and it's harder to see the yellowing colour of the injury in the subdued light of the hut. "But its fine."

He huffs, but it's not quite the disagreeing noise that it would have been four days ago.

I just smile, burrowing into my borrowed blanket.

"Where you at the Bloodhouse?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "Just finished with the pens."

"Is Zart up there?" he checks. "Only a couple of the Track-Hoes rushed into the Mess."

"Yep," I say. "They're betting peas on who can win a wishbone."

Newt turns his head to me, bewildered. "What?"

I snort, sharing a look with him. "Don't ask."

"You two," Ben's voice breaks our little bubble, and I look up. The _you two_ sits in my stomach as a warm weight. "Weigh in on this, would you?"

Newt groans.

I can't help a laugh.

Sure, the atmosphere back in the Butchery is more wild and outrageous, but it's rare that I get to see these guys in such an easy mood.

I sit forward a little, trying to pull the damp threads of my hair back again. "Weigh in on what?"

Ben starts off on a tangent, Doug immediately begins protesting and Billy quits humming to insist they're both wrong. Dimitri lobs a bit of bread at him. Minho and Newt share one of their brotherly looks and apparently decide to just let the argument continue. Minho, smiling in a way I don't often see, lays his head back against the wall and his eyes fall closed.

The blanket is warm, my hair is drying out, the boys are fighting over something completely redundant and the rain can still be heard over them; relentless on the roof.

Maybe we needed a Rain Day.

…

Three days later, and another month is gone.

This one seemed to last forever, between finding a contraceptive device under my skin, having Winston voted a Keeper and then losing the ability to walk for days after a tree tried to kill me.

I find I'm oddly looking forward to the new arrival when the alarm blares across the Glade.

It's mid morning. I'm still wearing shorts and borrowed hoodies, but I can walk almost totally fine and the bruise has gone. The ligament down the side of my knee just twinges if I stand on it for too long.

Jeff assures me that will pass soon.

So I find I'm jogging up to the Box platform with Dan and Lee as the red doors open over the familiar grill cage.

Newt and Gally pull up the doors, and then Gally hesitates. Newt steps back.

I peer forwards.

The boy in the cage is young. Very young.

All the ones I've ever met in the Glade look to be between fourteen at the very youngest, and twenty at the oldest, and that's basically just Alby. Even Gally, Minho and Newt, who have been here the longest other than him, all seem to be around the eighteen mark – making them fifteen or fourteen when they were sent.

This boy is a preteen. Twelve, I'd guess.

He's still got baby fat on him and his skin is pale, with two bright marks of colour on his cheeks. His blue eyes swim with tears and terror under a mess of dark curly hair.

Gally shoots Newt a look.

Newt leaves. He's gone for Alby.

Gally drops into the cage, and I just silently pray he doesn't scare the boy more.

"Day one, Greenie," he says, the same as always, but his voice is softer. "No one here is going to hurt you. Come on, let's get you out."

It takes a minute for Gally to convince him to climb from the Box and another for him to actually manage it.

The boy is shaking when he stands on the grass.

"Alright," Newt says. He's striding towards us, his limp only slowing him a little. "Clear off everyone."

Alby walks along at his elbow. His expression is fixed into something troubled.

No one argues.

Everyone is too shocked by the boy's age.

I turn to follow Lee back to the Bloodhouse when I'm pulled back.

"She'll catch you up," Newt says. He lets my wrist go when I stop.

I nod at them and stay with Gally, Alby and Newt, who surround the boy.

"You hurt, Kid?" Alby asks, as gently as he can.

The boy trembles.

"Alby," Newt says quietly.

When the older boy looks up, Newt tilts his head at me.

Alby nods.

I decide to take this for what it seems like, and I approach the boy.

"Hey," I say, very quietly. "I know you're scared. I know you can't remember anything, and I know that nothing I say is going to help."

In my peripheral vision, Alby starts forward and Newt presses on his shoulder.

I block them out.

The boy's eyes are riveted on me, wide and startled. Something in them settles.

"Your name will come back to you. Just give it a little while. The rest will come in time. You're safe as long as you're inside these walls."

Gally leans down next to me.

"Come with me, Kid. It's okay."

The boy's eyes fly from Gally's severe looking face to mine. I nod and try to smile.

Still shaking like a leaf, the boy follows Gally away, and I know they're going to the Pit. It always works that way; after some bad reactions to arriving – mine, for instance – Alby decided that shutting them in the Slammer to process the situation for themselves was safest.

"Good work," Alby says, when Gally and the kid have left earshot.

"What the hell is happening?" I ask. "He has to be too young to be here."

"I don't know," Alby mutters. "Try to get back to normal. I'll talk to him in a bit."

"Keep us posted," Newt says.

Alby claps him on the shoulder and heads off.

"Why me?" I ask, knowing Newt will understand.

"You make people feel better," Newt says, like it's that simple. "And he's too scared for Gally or Alby to be questioning him."

"You know, you're second in command around here," I say, though my tone is lighter now. "You could always take it upon yourself to do the tour and the introductions." I shrug, as I pick my way past him. "They look up to you; a newbie will too."

"Maybe the next one," Newt calls to me. I can hear the ghost of a smile in his voice.

I wave and make back for the Bloodhouse. Still have rabbits to feed and goose feathers to find. We'll unload the Box later.

…

The boy is called Chuck.

He didn't hit his head, so we wonder if his being younger has any affect on him remembering his name by nightfall.

He's still scared – ruined his pants more than once before he calmed down enough for Alby to take him around.

He isn't curious; he doesn't venture anywhere near the wall, and his eyes leap from Glader to Glader as though he's waiting for us to grow fangs.

He sticks fairly close to Alby all through the Box Feast, as the older makes sure he takes a helping of food, finds a seat by the fire and meets a handful of the boys.

He isn't given any of Gally's Brew.

…

"Pipsqueak looks terrified," Dan says as he drops down next to me that same night.

The fire is blazing in the pit, the sky a cloak of blackness above and my legs are stretched out in front of me as I grasp a jar of Brew in my hands.

I look across the camp at Chuck.

His eyes are still wide and round as he takes everything in, but at least his shaking has stopped. He's sitting on a log beside Rob, which is probably best, since Rob's a reserved guy and he's only just finished being a Greenie.

Chuck looks across and catches my eye. I see his cheeks darken and he quickly looks down.

"Didn't we all?" I ask, half rhetorically. I down a gulp of the Brew.

Dan snorts. "Not you," he says.

I turn my eyes to him instead.

"I was terrified."

He nods. "I know. And we could see you were scared when those doors opened, but after you got past Gally and then managed to knock Newt aside, everyone just kind of fell apart. I think Lee was more afraid of you than you were of us – the first girl, first one to surprise Gally like that. Not the first to make a break for it, but the first we couldn't catch. And then you hide for hours and nearly skewer Alby…And Lee wasn't alone; a few of the others were afraid, too."

Some of that is new to me. I can't fully process that these boys might have been afraid of me, so I turn to the other thing he said instead.

"Okay, this is really bugging me," I say. "How do you guys know I threw that spike at Alby? Only he and Newt were there and since Henry's first week, people keep mentioning it."

Dan gives me a very strange look but before he can answer – which I can see he's preparing to do – another voice joins the conversation.

"I told them."

Newt sinks down next to me.

"Why?" I ask. Newt takes the jar from my hands and tips it back, swallowing a good mouthful.

He hands it back.

"It was the night Henry got here," he says, nodding across to where the boy in question sits with Eric.

"We were stood the other side of the fire," Dan takes up the story. "Minho saw Henry come around to you and it looked like he was bothering you a bit. I suggested we should probably say something; tell him to just chill out when it came to you but Newt…" Dan chuckles, shaking his head. "Newt said you didn't need protecting. That if he got a little too much, you'd chuck a spoon at him or wave one of the spits in his face until he ran away."

I don't know whether to feel indignant that they think I'd poke a boy's eye out with a spit for asking awkward questions, or pleased that they know I can hold my own. I stay silent instead.

"That's when told them about Alby," Newt continues. "I said you grabbed one of the Builder's spikes before you climbed, and you threw it at him – close enough to make him stop – when he tried to get near you."

"You're pretty dangerous when you're afraid, Evie," Dan sniggers.

"Oh shut it," I tell him, laughing. "Well, at least that explains that. Is it ever going to get old?"

"Maybe," Newt smiles. "Maybe not."

"Probably should learn to actually defend yourself, though," Dan says, like he's still thinking it over.

Newt glances over at him, looking contemplative.

"You mean like the wrestling Ring?" I ask.

"No," Dan shakes his head. "Well, yeah – kind of. Not actually taking part, but if one of us could teach you some basics, at least that's something."

No one in the Glade hurts another.

That's one of the fundamental rules of our lives. But I know that we're still hoping to leave, and even knowing a couple of tricks about how to defend myself can only be a good thing when we do.

I nod. "Maybe that's a good idea."

"Ben," Newt says. "Or Billy. Both of them are pretty good. I'll talk to Alby tomorrow."

The conversation has just tied up when Frypan and Frankie cross over to us. Jeff and Winston are both in tow. Frypan hands down some extra jars of Gally's Brew to the others as they take seats and then holds out a long spit with part of a roasted fat goose on it.

"Well," he says. "Here's to the second most unusual Box Feast ever. Sorry, Evie. Not even a kid coming up tops the only girl."

"Thanks, Fry," I say sarcastically. A few of the group chuckle.

"Think he'll be alright?" Winston asks.

Eyes turn back to Chuck. He hasn't moved; still fixed to his log with his dish of food on his lap.

As though sensing being watched, his eyes jump up to us. He flushes again and snaps his head back down.

"He will be," Jeff says. "It takes time for all of us, but can you imagine being sent here if you were any younger? Give him a few days – he'll be everyone's little brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. We're catching up to the movie, Guys! Okay, still a fair way off, honestly, but hey - Chuck's here. And on that note...I don't know if any of this is ever brought up in the books, but my thoughts were always that he really is at least a couple of years younger than any of the other Gladers. Someone that young being sent up isn't heard of (I figure even Alby would have been at least 14 or so before he was sent up), so it would be a bit of a shock for them. Personally, I think it was a carefully placed variable on WCKD's part. Just more stage-setting. So hopefully that explains the reactions to him here.
> 
> 2\. Another Rain Day. Originally not planned. There was just two in the entire story, and we know one takes place during the events of the film, but whereas I've deliberately invoked parallels in places, I'm also deliberately drawing contrasts, too. This is one of them. Hopefully it makes more sense when the story gets there.
> 
> 3\. That mad little thing with peas and wishbones is all my mania. I'd apologise but...
> 
> 4\. This chapter is not my favourite. I feel like it fluctuates a bit. The first scene with Fry and Stan I like; it has a bit of focus. The Rain scenes seem a bit aimless. Chuck's scenes move back to plot, rather than character oriented. I don't know - maybe it reads okay, but I feel like it's a bit all over the place. Adding in the rain scenes might have done that. To be fair, they're all relevant, but in different ways, and some of them relevant later on, rather than now, so that probably doesn't help. Or I'm paranoid and overthinking it. I'm not sure. Hope you enjoyed it anyway!
> 
> Chapter 14 - Teaser
> 
> "This is not funny."
> 
> "It is a little," Frypan puts in. He's setting down the pot of broth not far from us.
> 
> -To be posted at the end of the week-


	14. Infatuation, Affection and Fixes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are surprising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: One of my wonderful reviewers on ff.net has coined the 'Neva' ship name, and I felt it was too good not to share. So there we are; thanks to them for that :) And apologies in advance for yet more unanswered questions (though that's half the fun, surely?)

Chuck is put to work with Zart in the gardens on his first day. Alby walks him there personally and we all figure that he feels just a little more responsible given the age difference.

But he is apparently all thumbs and not really sure what he's doing, so the following day he's moved promptly on to the Kitchen. Even that seems to be a bit much for him with the amount of preparation needed each day to keep everyone fed.

Winston reluctantly decides he shouldn't trial with the Slicers. The slaughter of animals in the Bloodhouse, not to mention the knives are probably not smart to expose a twelve year old to. And he doesn't seem the type of person to work with animals too well.

Similarly, Gally decides after half a day with him that Building won't work. He can help with small chores, but he doesn't have the strength needed for the heavy lifting, and most of the team feel they're too busy watching out for him rather than working.

So he ends up with Tim and the Sloppers on the afternoon of his third day.

The tasks aren't exactly challenging, but the team welcomes him in and it's easier to watch out for him doing laundry, clearing up Homestead and repairing hammocks than if he was loose anywhere else.

Chuck settles into it, and slowly, the panic leaves his eyes. He doesn't jump every time someone speaks to him, though he doesn't look all the boys in the eyes. And then he starts to smile and laugh more.

…

The summer period is truly setting in, now.

Obviously, whatever regulates the environment in the Glade means there's not a whole lot of difference, but the grass is greener; the goats all get a little fizzy on the fructose – which is something that I know without knowing how I know it. Whatever little breezes there sometimes are seem to taper off leaving a slightly muggy feeling in the air.

It's not too bad to adjust to; out of the direct sun around Homestead the slight increase in heat quickly becomes the new norm.

The only real tell is in the Builders and Track-Hoes, who work out on the field a lot, and for a couple of days, adjust by deciding to shuck their shirts.

"Summer's here," Zart says wryly, on his way past me one afternoon when I've dropped by the Gardens to pass a message.

He's still wearing a wife-beater, dusted with dirt and grass stains as he pulls along a rickety wheelbarrow crafted entirely from wood.

He jerks his head to his team, indicating at least five of them who are now at work, either in the corn field or the allotments without their shirts on.

I bite down on my lip and just shrug.

_Don't say anything._

"Well, it's warm," I say.

_So much for that._

Zart rolls his eyes.

"Enjoying the view, then?" he teases.

And I laugh. I really hadn't thought of it like that. And it feels a little odd to try.

"Sure," I reply, anyway, happy to laugh about it. "Are you joining in?"

Zart cackles as he trudges on with his wheelbarrow. "Not a shucking chance."

…

The heat settles, and the Gladers return to using their clothes again.

The mugginess still lingers heavy in the late afternoon, but no one really reacts to it after a couple of days, and I assume that this happens every year as the slight temperature variation evens off again.

Life has returned to its fully-clothed normality when I drop by the Bloodhouse for my usual chores two days later, only to find Alby, Dan and Newt out in the animal pen trying to rebuild a broken piece of fence.

"Whoa," I exhale, even as I slip through the gate. There are at least two rails in near splinters.

Alby is hammering in a new post with a powerful, swinging motion, and Dan's arms strain as he holds it in place. Newt is using a second hammer to lever old nails from the now useless pieces of broken wood that used to be in the fence.

"What?" Dan asks, absently, apparently not quite catching my mutter. "Oh, Hi, Eva. Come for the goats?"

I just nod. "Yep. What happened?"

"They've all gone loopy," says another voice.

I spin around, only now spotting Chuck sat behind the water trough.

His cheeks are full of colour, and I'm not sure if it's just the heat, or something else, but his eyes slide away from mine when I look at him.

Newt snorts and my eyes sweep back to him as he stands straight, still holding the hammer.

"They're just a bit fresh," he says. "Pepper kicked out half the rail when Frankie tried to catch her earlier."

I have to bite back a smile when the name Pepper comes out of his mouth.

"Well then this will be fun," I say.

I leave them at the top of the pen and head to the far end where the goats have been shut into the little shack. They are a little quick on their feet, but they're more than familiar with the ritual of being milked now, and used to me doing it, so its no harder than it usually is.

"Maybe limit their grass," I suggest, walking back to them when I'm done.

Dan shrugs. "They'll settle," he says. "They go a bit hyper on the grass every year, but it's only for a week or so."

"Okay then," I say, wondering absently how many fences they've repaired over that time thanks to the frisky goats. "I'll leave you to it."

"Hey, Eva," Alby calls, making me stop before I reach the gate. "How about taking Chuck with you, back to Homestead?"

I glance at Chuck in time to see his eyes go wide. His cheeks flood with colour all over again.

Confused, I just nod to the chicken run. "Still have to collect eggs," I say. "But the milk shouldn't sit in this heat too long." I move over to Chuck and crouch next to him. "Think you could take these down to Frypan for me?"

Still red-faced, he nods jerkily and stands, reaching out to heft the jugs into his arms.

"Just keep them upright and don't run," I tell him. "Thanks, Chuck."

He ducks around me and strides off for the gate, which Dan holds open for him. He doesn't run, but he hurries off across the field without a single backwards glance.

Still confused, I leave the boys to their project and go to sort out the chickens.

Maybe it's just been a weird day.

…

"He's got a crush on you."

"What?" I ask.

I haven't really been listening.

Jeff and I are in the Bloodhouse. Lee got a long cut down his arm when a knife slipped and Jeff came to fix it. I was finishing up with the geese, so I stayed. As Lee was being patched up, Winston asked about how Chuck was doing.

I kind of half tuned out until this statement cuts through the job I've given myself. I've stopped cleaning the blades to repair a knife handle; using leather laces to bind the wood over the tang.

Winston smiles, like its funny, but his eyes aren't joking.

"He has a crush on you," he repeats. "Chuck."

I frown. I've barely talked to him; I'm always volleying between the animal pens, the kitchens and the Medi Tent and I've just seen him in passing over the last week. Most of what I've said to him is a fleeting hello, or to check if he's okay. Other than the one instance the day before in the goat pen, I can't once remember him replying; just bright spots of red rushing to his cheeks as he hurries on.

He can't even know me, let alone have a crush – that's mad.

"That's mad," I say.

"Doesn't make it any less true," Jeff says.

"You too?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Something happened to make him think you're not the same as the rest of us."

"Yeah, she was born a girl," Lee laughs.

But I know that's not it. I remember being asked to stay and try to talk to him just minutes after he arrived. Newt telling me that I make people feel better.

I'm going to kill him.

"Shuck-face," Jeff says. "Not that. He's not afraid any more, and that means he has more time to be a twelve year old boy."

"And twelve year old boys," Winston says, like I should have seen this coming. "Have crushes on pretty girls."

…

"I'm going to kill you."

I say this to Newt as I arrive in the Mess hall for supper and he looks up, startled and amused. "Just fair warning," I add cheerfully.

"Why?" he asks.

It's a fair question.

"Because, according to Winston and Jeff, Chuck has a crush on me and it's because you got me to talk to him that first day. So it's technically your fault."

Newt's eyes light up with amusement. A smile pulls at his mouth.

"This is not funny."

"It is a little," Frypan puts in. He's setting down the pot of broth not far from us.

"Thanks, Fry," I call to him. My eyes don't leave Newt.

Amused as he looks, there's no surprise in his face. Not even a bit.

"You knew," I say.

He gives me a very slight guilty shrug.

I pick up the nearest empty dish and go to whack him with it. He catches my wrist before I get close and tugs the dish away. His thumb brushes across the sensitive skin over my pulse. I don't know if it's an accident.

I hope he doesn't notice when it jumps.

"Trying to attack another Glader," Newt teases.

Newt doesn't tease. I don't think I've ever seen him this light-hearted.

"Oh shut up," I laugh at him, yanking my arm back. "How could you know and not tell me?"

"I didn't want it to bother you," he says. "He'll grow out of it as he gets to know you."

I raise an eyebrow. "Thanks," I say, dryly. "So once he knows me, he'll stop liking me?"

Newt hesitates. He rubs the back of his neck and then he says, simply, "You have a crush when it's an unrealistic infatuation. When you get to know someone, that infatuation either just goes away or gets replaced with genuine affection."

I stare at him.

He shrugs, eyes sliding away from mine. "The crush will go away because he won't see you as that stranger who calmed him down; he'll start to genuinely like you as a person. I don't really know how anyone bloody couldn't."

For some strange reason, all I can think about as he turns to start laying out dishes is the way he kissed me on the forehead around two weeks ago.

The memory of that day is clouded with a fair bit of pain, but I remember that moment. I remember the fear that surfaced as anger in him when I intercepted the falling beam, and then later, how he'd been very quiet and gentle as his lips pressed into my skin.

It felt like words just wouldn't work to express that amount of fear and relief.

_Genuine affection._

I shake my head and nudge him lightly as I set about helping.

"I like you as an actual person, too," I tease him, smiling.

Newt snorts.

We start spooning broth into the dishes without saying another word.

…

I'm a little amazed, when I think about it just a couple of hours later that I never realised.

Supper is finished; the night has drawn over us like a cape. The fire casts a dancing golden light at the front of Homestead as the boys chatter, sprawl in the grass, wrestle and sneak leftovers from the pot of broth by the Kitchen.

I sit with my legs stretched out towards the fire, leaning against one of the logs, and can't help watching Chuck as he hangs out with the Sloppers.

He smiles far more easily now, and I watch him laugh as he swipes Tim's spoon when he turns his head. He hides the spoon, even as Tim starts checking on the ground for it.

When he looks up and catches my eyes, he flushes and quickly turns back to his team.

I'm not sure how I just brushed off this behaviour as him adjusting. But then, what do I have to go on? The concept of someone having this infatuation with me seems – well – insane, to me. I mean…why?

So maybe I didn't see it because I just never thought it was a possibility.

There's a thump to my right, and Newt collapses beside me.

Unlike normal, he twists and lies back on the worn earth, one leg bent at the knee as he rubs his forehead with a hand. He looks kind of exhausted.

I frown. "What did he make you do?"

Alby dropped by our table at supper, asking Newt to help him out as soon as he was done. I hadn't seen either of them since.

Now, Alby strides into the group the other side of the fire, slotting easily into a space with the laughing Track-Hoes.

"One of the pipes in the shower block broke," Newt says. His eyes are closed as his hand drops away, resting across his stomach. "Had to try and fix it so nothing leaks when they're next used."

The showers, like the main pump in the Gardens are sourced from underground; a limitless supply from the Creators.

They'd rather the Grievers killed us than dehydration.

But having the block flood or leaving the pipe work to rust isn't good. So of course it was something they needed to fix as soon as they could.

"And?" I ask, my voice quieter than I'd planned.

"Not quite," he says. He shifts on the ground, a flicker of discomfort passing through his face. "Too dark to see properly now."

"You're getting sand in your hair," I say, changing the subject and already planning a midnight trip out of my hammock.

Newt opens his eyes – the fire reflects in them, flickering gold - and looks up at me. "What do you suggest?" he asks, starting to smirk.

Apparently, tired as he is, there's still some piece of his earlier teasing mood left in him.

"Get a pillow," I joke.

But he goes still.

I can read his face and see the instant he decides, and then he shifts again and he settles with his head on my lap. His eyes close and a smile plays over his mouth.

I laugh quietly, but I don't protest. I use him as a pillow often enough. Instead I shift my weight a little so my legs don't go to sleep.

"Better?" he asks, voice ringing with weary amusement.

I nod, though he's not looking at me. "Much," I say, smiling. "Just don't go to sleep. I will leave you here."

He breathes out a laugh.

"Seems a bit mean, Love," he says, voice playfully mocking.

I smile at the so easy way he uses the endearment; attached to the end of his words with no inflection or weight; just _there_. One of those British language quirks of his that just slipped out in his tiredness.

"Shame, that," I say, playing into his mood.

A soft laugh breaks out of him, dissipating into the firelight.

I look up again, letting Newt fall into silence. Chuck is back to smiling, though Tim has his spoon back. Alby has moved away from Zart's bunch and is talking to Dan and Winston. I can just make out their flickering forms through the wavering air and plume of smoke above the fire.

Frypan and Stan are hauling away what's left of the broth and Billy is wrestling with Jackson in the pit, which is where most of the boys are gathered.

My mind drifts and I breathe in the heady smell of wood smoke.

Jackson goes flying into the sand. A cheer goes up, sounding oddly distant. Minho and Ben take to the Ring.

Ben is due to start teaching me some very basic fighting tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it just as much as I'm really not.

"Who taught you to fight?" I ask, the words forming before I've really thought about them.

But Newt's voice sounds more awake than I'd been expecting when he replies, "Not sure anyone did. Alby, Minho and I used to wrestle around a lot back then. It's just instinct and self preservation." I see his eyes open again, and I look down at him. "Ben's taught Billy and Stan and a bunch of others. You'll be fine, Eva."

He says it like he knew I was thinking of my approaching lessons.

I just offer him a smile. "I know," I say. "I'm kind of looking forward to it."

Newt's expression is a mental headshake; fondly exasperated, and his eyes close again.

The tension has slowly seeped from his shoulders; his frame relaxes into the ground and he's a warm weight on my legs.

I suddenly realise my fingers are combing through his hair and I'm a bit perplexed when I can't remember starting to do it.

Frowning at myself, even though my movements don't stop, it takes me a second to realise Alby's left the Slicers and is striding around the fire towards us.

That's his 'we need to talk shop' face, which means he's coming for Newt.

My eyes fly up, locking on him.

Alby looks back at me and he must see the defensiveness in my expression, because he falters.

I just shake my head.

He hesitates, his eyes drop to Newt, and he nods.

He walks away.

I feel my heart thump in my chest. Newt's been all over the place already today, and then trying to repair a pipe in fast failing light has apparently just caught up to him.

_Just leave him alone for a bit._

Across the fire, I'm sure I'm not imagining it when I spot Minho – standing by the Ring – give me a small nod. I'm not sure if it's thankful or even approving, but I don't dwell on it.

"Was that Alby?" Newt asks.

I look down at him.

_How could he know with his eyes closed?_

"If I said no would you believe me?"

He chuckles.

I relent. "I guess he decided it could wait," I say.

Newt's eyes open again, and he breathes in before lifting himself up. I draw my fingers away from the space he left. He curls forwards; stretching his back then looks at me across his shoulder. The weariness in his face has faded. "Thanks," he says, quietly, and I think he's probably guessed I didn't just sit here while Alby walked off on his own.

He's a good leader, but I think he can get a bit single minded.

I don't reply. I just shrug off the thanks as we both settle back against the log.

Already my mind is back on the broken pipe.

…

I'm getting good at lighting torches, so when I'm away from the Hammock huts well after turn in time, I strike one up and traipse around the back to the shower block.

I've never looked too hard at any of the pipe work. They run up the outside of the stalls themselves and they've not been a concern before, but now I stab the torch into the ground next to the busted pipe and start to inspect it.

It was a long shot – I knew that. The chances of me being able to fix it alone in the dark are slim to none, but I wanted to try.

And then, studying the break and the different parts, I shock myself.

It feels like climbing a tree, or making a bow, or holding a knife.

I spin the tap to lock off the water supply, pull the pipe from the connector in the ground, reposition the rubber seal and get to work.

It takes around an hour and a few trips to one of the store units. I throw myself into it without much thought, relying on the dancing light of the flame and feel alone.

In the end, having found some plastic tubing, more rubber seals and a very old valve that is still in better condition than the one I remove from the busted pipe, I manage to jerry-rig a new section of the pipe work.

There's grime on my fingers, the torch is burning low, unused connectors, copper lengths of pipe and rotted through rubber seals litter the grass around me at the back of the block and the moon is high enough now that it's almost brighter than the flame beside me.

Then, when I twist the tap back on to check for leaks, I suddenly stop.

_How in the world did I know how to do any of this?_

Climbing trees feels like one thing; nothing too complicated about it, really, even if it did come strangely natural to me. But this?

This is something I've never done before in my life, that clearly requires a bit more of a thought process.

Not for the first time, I wonder who I was before this.

More and more, I wonder if we're really two different people.

…

Alby can't work out what happened the next morning.

I see him muttering to Newt and making frustrated gestures at breakfast. Newt, bemused, glances over at me.

I know it won't be long before I'm asked about it. I don't figure too many of the Gladers knew about the problem in the first place, and probably even less would have bothered to try fixing it after the bonfire in the dark.

So I'm not in the least surprised when Newt and Alby approach me before I start work for the day. Newt, at least, has already guessed I did it, even if exactly how I managed it is still a mystery even to me. And from the appreciative expression on Alby's face, I'm guessing he's taken Newt's theory as truth.

But still.

I tell them faeries did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. I hope Chuck trialling jobs sounds okay. Being so young, and still freaked out, I just think a lot of the jobs would be...unwise. Knives and heavy lifting, for instance? So this is my interpretation of how he may have ended up as a Slopper (which he is in the canon world, and I'm trying to stick to that in every way I can).
> 
> 2\. 'Summer period'. There is very little climate change within the Glade, being that its all artificially regulated, and the Sun Flares mean it doesn't ever get cold anyway. But I figure there's a slight variation in seasons (touched on briefly back when the bug was going around) very much based on my own ideas again. There might be a shift in the warmth and for a couple of days, the boys mainly working out in the field - Builders and Track-Hoes, rather than the Cooks and such - might work shirtless just while they adjust to the heat, but then it would pretty much carry on as normal. Someone mentioned a saddening lack of shirtlessness in the film, but this is my thought on why; its just normal for them to work in the heat and a lot of their clothing looked fairly thin anway.
> 
> 3\. Newt's endearment. Okay. This. I've read fics where he uses the word a lot, just as a quirk in general speech, and I really kind of like it. At the same time, the way my version of him has developed, he doesn't use endearments very freely (probably just sarcastically, if at all). So I kind of liked the idea that when tired out, he doesn't think through his words so much, and he might slip. Hopefully that's believable for you, as I debated including it at first. Feedback is always good.
> 
> 4\. The pipes. Yep. This is the bit with no answers just yet as we're still just beginning to explore one of the overarching themes of the story (if you can guess what it might be). Also I always spell faeries that way. Sorry.
> 
> Chapter 15 - Teaser
> 
> I grasp Zart's hand and he pulls me up. We stand in the sandy pit, facing each other.
> 
> "Whenever you're ready, Evie," Zart says. His smile goes from one ear to the other. "I'm looking forward to actually winning a match."
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	15. Things You're Learning Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are talks and sparring practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, to get the pacing right for the next few chapters, there may have to be a couple of shorter ones. I'll see how I go, but they're not being cooperative with the break points at the minute XD

By the middle of his second week, Chuck is downright mischievous and pranking half the Glade.

He leaves pine needles in people's hammocks, puts berry juice in their boots, throws their clothes on the roof while they shower and traps them in the bathroom before bedtime.

I haven't had a single prank pulled on me.

Nor has Alby.

He seems to pick at random, though by the end of the week, Newt approaches me as I make my way from the animal pens with the usual jugs of goat's milk. He's shaking out his hooded shirt and wearing an annoyed expression.

Newt's annoyed is everyone else's 'mildly put out', and I can't help but sit the jugs down and laugh as he stops in front of me.

He's already had to bash out his boots and start wearing another pair of shoes thanks to being berried.

"This is getting bloody ridiculous," he says. He whips the shirt and pine needles flutter to the grass. Apparently giving up, he ties it around his hips and rubs his forehead. There are a few scattered scars on his arm; pale lines across the wiry muscle that are only just visible under the sun, usually hidden by the shirt.

"Take it easy," I tell him. I adjust the satchel strap on my shoulder and pick up the jugs again when it looks like he doesn't need any help. "He's finding his place; just like the others. That's what you always say."

Newt gives me a look that is half amused half exasperated. I remember a very similar look on his face the day I saw him talking to Alby while I sat in the tree. I'm glad that I see that amused look more often now than I ever used to.

"None of the others have caused half the Gladers to run from the showers to their hammocks wrapped only in their blankets," Newt points out.

I bite my lip, feeling warmth spread across my cheeks.

The first time I saw that, it was evening, supper was cleared away and Dimitri had gone racing past the empty fire pit, dripping wet, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He had been clutching a dark blanket around his waist, but it was quite clearly all he was wearing.

Half the boys laughed, the other half let out joking cat-calls. I clapped my hand over my mouth and spun my body away. Zart ended up patting me on the back, laughing riotously as I hid my face against his shoulder.

Dimitri called everyone shuck-faced shanks and disappeared into the Runner's hut.

The incident was talked about quite a lot for the next fifteen minutes, before Stan did the exact same thing.

It was at that point that Newt headed off to investigate and found that someone had thrown all the clothes that were usually left outside the shower block onto the roof of the Kitchen.

No one brought it up to Chuck, knowing he was still finding his feet and would probably freak out if he was given a warning.

Since that night it's happened twice more. I can't quite look at any of the boys who get caught out as they race by, but I've stopped blushing and covering my eyes. I try to pretend it's not happening – and Newt knows that.

"Get on with your job," I tease, heading past him. "If he does it again tonight, then talk to him."

I leave Newt on the field and duck into the Kitchen.

Stan is sitting at the main table, seasoning a rabbit. I look away from the scene, heading for the storage crates instead.

Stan chuckles. "I know; now you've seen me without clothes, you just can't face me."

I look up, startled, and he just laughs harder. The memory of him racing to his hammock after his clothes were stolen from the shower is a fuzzy one.

I set down the milk jugs and chuck a spoon at him, "Not exactly."

"Nah," he says, smirking in a way I don't like. "Blondes are more your type."

I frown.

_Are they?_

Stan glances at me.

I shrug. "Not really sure what my type is," I say. "But that's not it. What's with the rabbit?"

He goes back to his task, expression turning into a relaxed smile, and I know that he was kidding – he knew my aversion was about the rabbit. "Getting a few too many up there," he says. "Winston asked one of the boys to bring down a few. Don't worry – apparently White-Foot is still munching on cabbages."

I give him a withering look.

A little bit of me is relieved anyway.

There's a noise just outside and then Chuck appears in the doorway, carrying clean, folded cloths.

He's settled in with the Sloppers nicely, but it's still a lingering worry in the back of my mind that he's so young. I know it worries some of the others too. As far as Newt and I could tell, I'm here because there was a switch; something done on purpose for a purpose. And I wonder if Chuck is here; such a young boy, for a reason just as significant.

But it's hard to work out what that could be.

"Tim sent these down," he says, voice muffled by the pile of fabric. I let my worries drop. "To replace the old clean up rags. I've got to take the old ones back."

Newt's words from not even an hour ago flash through my mind.

I wave Stan off, crossing over to the younger boy. I gently lift the pile from him.

As soon as he spots me, his eyes go round and his cheeks fill with colour.

"Hey, Chuck," I say. "Thanks. I'm heading towards Homestead, do you mind if I talk to you on the way?"

He shakes his head wordlessly.

I set the fresh cloths down on the table.

Stan passes me a handful of the old rags that the Cooks use to scrub down the tables and I stuff them into my satchel. I turn back to Chuck and steer him out of the Kitchen.

"You're not in trouble," I tell him, when he walks stiffly alongside me, eyes on the floor. "Do you know my name?"

"Eva," he says. "They talk about you."

"Who?"

He shrugs. "All of them. Tim, Zart, Frypan…"

"It's like having twenty brothers," I say, smiling. "I was so scared when I arrived."

Chuck looks at me like I'm mad, but at least he's looking at me. His face has lost its high colour.

"Really?" he asks. "But…you just seem like you're not."

I laugh. I can't help it. Though distant, I remember the choking fear of my own arrival; it's strange that no one else seemed to see it. "Not anymore," I tell him. "But when you first come up in that Box and you don't know anything, that's scary enough – being the only girl on top of that…"

Chuck swallows. "I'm still afraid sometimes," he confesses in a whisper.

"You wouldn't be human if you weren't," I say. "We're all still scared sometimes. Fear can keep you alive."

This time, when he throws me a glance, there's some kind of new appreciation there.

"Someone telling you that you're safe doesn't always help," I say. "And it doesn't always make it true, so I won't try. Just…try to give these guys a chance, okay? There's nowhere to go for now, and you don't need old memories to make new ones."

Chuck is quiet for a moment. We walk slowly towards the gathering of Sloppers outside one of the storage huts. They're pulling laundry down off of the lines strung from the overhanging trees.

Looking at the lines, I'm reminded about the silver birch bow under my hammock, waiting to be tested.

_Soon_ , I think.

"Thanks," Chuck says, eventually. "Do you…did the new memories you made help?"

I look down at him. I don't have to even think about the answer, but I want him to know I'm answering seriously.

"I don't know anything about my life before I came here," I say. "But I wouldn't give up the friends I've made here to get those memories back; not for a second.

"You may not feel that way, and that's okay. Everyone finds a way to cope with the Glade on their own." I smile at him. "You'll be fine, Chuck. But one more thing?"

He nods.

"Maybe cut back on the pranking?" I watch his cheeks flush. "Its good to have a laugh but this is all we have; it's our whole world and working all day can be hard on everyone."

"Okay," he says. "Sorry."

I smile at him, pulling out the used rags from my satchel for him. "It's okay. Go ahead; I've got to get back to work."

He nods again, smiling tentatively back, and jogs away to rejoin his group.

I wonder as I head on for the Medi Tent if I've done anything to dispel the crush, or if I've made it worse.

…

The pranks drop in frequency.

While some of the boys seem to like Chuck, and indeed view him as a little – sometimes annoying – brother, they do seem relieved about the reduction in sabotage.

Sadly, a number of the Gladers don't seem too thrilled with him. This young boy who was sent down hasn't got the maturity yet to really see the situation the same way they do. Even scared, he's trying to make the best of it by playing jokes.

The others make the best of it by forming friendships and bonds that carry them through the bad days.

Despite seeming to know he's not actively liked by everyone, Chuck does seem to find his own niche in the group. He doesn't blush so frequently when he spots me, now, and says more than two words to me in one go.

He looks up to Alby with a certain reverence.

I get the feeling that all Chuck really wants is a big brother.

…

The sky is barely light the first time I take the bow from under my hammock the next morning.

I've managed to pinch a handful of the long spikes the Builder's use to help secure panels. I have a suspicion Eric left them aside on purpose, because only he knew about the branch I asked for, and the spikes have been cut longer than normal.

I take the bow, the spikes and my collection of feathers with me when I sneak into the Deadheads.

It took time to collect the feathers from the geese. I've picked them up while clearing out the pen, but it takes some of the hissing matches to shake loose the flight feathers that are strong enough to use on an arrow. The downy, constantly dropped feathers won't do.

So I sit at the base of a tree and cut grooves into the spikes with the knife, then hack the feathers into neat shapes that slot in. I cut under the bark of the tree, using amber sap to glue them in.

I'm struck, as I finally stand up, the sun just cresting over the wall, to discover that I like making things.

It echoes of the inexplicable way I was able to fix the shower piping. It's something that I know to do without knowing how.

Yet another thing I've learned about myself, I suppose.

…

By the time I've finished making the arrows – needing to rely on the sharpened tips of wood alone for the heads – it's clearly morning.

Breakfast isn't far off.

So I pick up one of the arrows, knock it back onto the string and let the thin, cleanly whittled rod of wood settle into the side of the bow.

It creaks in my hands as I cant it straight and pull the string back to my ear.

I hold my breath as I let go.

The arrow goes flying.

It's not the straightest trajectory, and it doesn't have a great range, but it sails cleanly through the wood and stakes into the soft ground some way off.

The bow hasn't snapped.

I see this as something of a success.

I lower the bow. The side of my arm stings a bit from where the loosed string snapped against it. I'll need to do something about that. I can see the goose feathers on the tail end of the arrow, shining in the early light – for some reason I can't fathom, I knew where to place the feathers to help it fly straight – and I can't help a smile.

It's not amazing, and somehow I still feel safer with the tiny knife in my pocket, but I made this, and it works, and it's a weapon.

Shaking myself, I hurry to collect the launched arrow and gather my things before racing back for the hammock. My time is up today.

…

I swing out my fist, missing Ben's face by inches and before I can blink, his hand comes up and pushes my bent elbow across my body.

It pulls on my shoulder and gasp as I try to twist after it.

Ben straightens me and his hand on my elbow lets up a little. "If you miss, you move first," he says. "Duck if you have to. If you stay there, you leave your whole side open."

I nod.

There's an awful lot I'm trying to commit to memory. I started some basic training with Ben around a week ago. Short sessions, just every other night, once he returns from the Maze.

The techniques he teaches aren't refined or any real self-defence style. It's just instinct, but it's all we have. Better than nothing.

"Again," Ben says.

I resume my stance, spreading my weight and try to remember everything.

_Keep on the balls of your feet, be ready to move, don't over-reach, follow through with your body weight, keep your thumb outside of your fingers when you punch…_

I let out a slow breath.

Ben attacks.

I have a bruise developing on my side when we walk back towards the fire pit as the sky begins to darken. This one is mild, compared to my track record.

"How did it go?" Zart asks, handing me a jar of Brew. "You look a little…beat up."

"She's doing good," Ben says. "She just gets herself tied up at times from thinking about everything too much." He looks at me, "You've only been doing this a week. And it might be good to get Billy to help – everyone has a different natural style…"

I nod. "Thanks, Ben."

He offers a small smile and jogs away – probably for Runner's Lodge. I sink down next to Zart and swallow some of the Brew. My side pulses.

"Where'd he get you?" Zart asks, eyes darting across me.

"Ribs," I say. "Better than last time. I half-dodged him but he's bigger than me."

Zart laughs. "I can go against you," he says.

I look over at him, smirking. Zart takes his turn in the Ring, but he's not the best wrestler. And he's still bigger than me. "Really?"

What Ben said about working with different people swims in my head.

"Sure." He stands up and offers me a hand. "Come on; before everyone else turns up."

I look around the camp. I can still hear Fry and the others finishing up in the Kitchen, and the fire pit is cold, filled with silvery ashes from yesterday. There's really no one around – just Jack and Rob readying the barrels of Brew.

I grasp Zart's hand and he pulls me up. We stand in the sandy pit, facing each other.

"Whenever you're ready, Evie," Zart says. His smile goes from one ear to the other. "I'm looking forward to actually winning a match."

So I lunge first.

Like me, Zart's technique seems to be primarily avoiding blows than blocking or delivering them. We mostly duck around each other, occasionally landing a lucky strike, but it feels more like a very confined game of tag, rather than a sparring match.

"Are you going light on me?" I ask, a little out of breath as the Slicers make their way towards the fire pit. The sun has fallen behind the wall; the shadows stretch all the way across the Glade.

Zart pulls a guilty expression.

I'm not going to learn anything if he doesn't actually try to take me out.

I barrel into him. It's almost a spear tackle; my shoulder driving into his ribs and I hear his breath rush out at the impact.

He stays standing, but we leave furrows in the sand where I've managed to push him back. He pushes back into me, and where I already ache, I can feel my strength failing.

And then I feel his closed fist bump into the side of my knee.

It's not a punch; it wasn't nearly a hard enough blow, but it's strong enough that the joint buckles.

The next thing I know, I'm lying in the sand. Not in pain, just surprised.

Zart kneels next to me, looking worried.

"Eva? Eva? Shuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I say, sitting up. I gently press my fingers into the once-tender spot on my leg.

The bruise I got weeks ago from the falling beam has gone, though it took its time about it. I can run – even sprint – without any problems at all. But I never realised that it might still be a weak point for direct impact.

"Your leg?" Zart asks. "I thought it might make you flinch; I didn't think it'd-"

"It didn't hurt," I hurry to assure him. "I'm fine." I stand up and brush myself off to prove it. "I just didn't know it might still be a weak point. I know now I have to guard it. Thanks."

Zart slowly starts to smile again. "Then you're welcome."

"Again?" I ask.

"I'll take a go!"

We both turn and Dan jogs away from the Slicers towards us. The other guys follow him, all wearing smiles that are a little bit proud.

Zart bows out and Winston claps him on the back as Dan takes his spot.

"Let's see what you've got then, Evie."

Actually practicing like this somehow makes it easier for me to remember what Ben's been saying.

Dan is left handed – I've always known that – and now that I'm the one standing opposite him, I can see that he leaves his right side a little less guarded.

I have something to aim for.

"Bring it on," I say.

Dan smirks, and he moves first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Chuck's pranking nature is taken a bit more from the book version of him. And I don't know much other than he played pranks, some involving the bathroom, so the rest of it is me using creative licence again. His relationship dynamics with the others are more based on the film, though, and I've built on what you see there. Alby, for instance, where I always thought there was a hint of familial fondness between them. I hope it reads believably.
> 
> 2\. I just want to clarify that Eva saying she wouldn't trade her new memories for her old ones does not mean that she views the world like Gally does, or that she's content with being stuck in the Glade. Kind of like Newt, she throws herself into helping so she doesn't have to think about the lack of news or answers, but she does want out. What she said relates more to the fact that the friends she has mean a lot to her, and she wouldn't want to give them up for a life she can't remember; whether it was better or worse. Though what she says is actually broadening something rather more complex.
> 
> Sorry for the lack of a teaser - Can't find a good bit again...


	16. Changes Over Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are sketches and revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Ended up later than I hoped, sorry about that, but I think I solved the issue of a shorter chapter.

I spar with some of the boys every evening that week. My sessions with Ben taper off. He says that just the matches with the others will teach me just as much as he could.

I know that they aren't really wrestling.

I've watched enough of them go flying through the sand during Box Feasts to know that they're going light on me, but given I'm still learning to spot openings, I appreciate it more than I'm indignant about it.

Zart, Dan, Lee and Stan all take turns, teaching me and cheering me on. Since realising the ligament down the side of my knee was a weak point, I've been able to guard it better, almost instinctively now. It doesn't get attacked again, though I still end up on the ground plenty.

Finally, I'm able to beat Dan.

The fire is just being started when I just manage to slip past him and force my weight into his right hip. His balance is just off, and he goes over.

He hits the sand, and for a beat, everyone goes quiet, and then Frypan cheers.

Dan gets up, shaking sand out of his hair and beaming.

He hugs me, not looking the least bit upset about his defeat.

Ben nods at me from across the fire pit. I smile back at him and mouth a thank you.

I'm not an effective fighter – and I don't feel like its something meant for me - but given that we don't really know what's coming, I feel better knowing I've at least learned something.

…

I spar against Newt once.

It doesn't go well.

We're both quick, and after months, we know each other too well to really get anywhere even though he's better than me. Then I make a real mistake. I manage to catch him; going for a strike at his ribs.

Faster than I can process, he uses my own momentum to twist me away. It offsets my balance and it's only his grip that keeps me from falling back.

We both go still.

His fingers are curled around my wrist, locking it, blocking me from attack with my arms. But I can easily kick out with my foot and take his weak ankle out. Because he's holding me up, he won't be able to dodge the blow.

It'll put him on the floor.

At the same second, I can see he's realised that all he needs to do is press into my knee with his free hand and I'll be done. It's the one I bruised; and I have no way of defending it.

Neither of us moves.

Frypan, laying out the night's supper dishes as the sun goes down, is the only one around. He shakes his head, smiling in an exasperated way and walks off, talking about predictable shuck-faces and most boring matches ever.

Newt pulls me upright and we head after Fry without a word. We'll help lay out the food instead.

I guess we are predictable; I didn't even think of it when we were talking and sort of ended up in the Ring. But with the others, if I win, it's because I've managed to get a legitimately lucky strike.

I didn't consciously decide it, but I know I'm never going to be able to use Newt's weak point against him.

I guess I'm not alone.

…

With supper done, the dishes washed at the pump and the fire crackling and blazing into the night, I wander through the tree line of the woods, hidden by its shadows.

There's a strange, nagging tug right at the back of my mind that I can't place or identify beyond knowing it has something to do with Newt. It's the place in my head that rolls over all the tiny touches; his fingers against the healing scratches, his thumb over my pulse, the way he gripped my wrist to keep me standing in the sand pit.

I'm not sure why they stand out, the memories returning to me when my thoughts are quiet, and it annoys me.

The hum of voices from Homestead grows quiet as I leave it behind and the boys around the fire decide to turn in.

I duck into Alby's hut and head for my section at the end.

The flickering golden light of a torch makes me pause at Newt's doorway.

It's just as I vaguely remember it, from the night I stood here, unable to sleep, but the firelight casts it in a warm glow. The hammock still sways above the woven reed mat and the dark leather harness hangs from the post at the end. The low crate rests along the partition, the small stone on its lid.

Newt sits curled over on the wooden stool and a soft scratching that I find familiar but cannot place fills the room.

I thought he'd headed off with Alby not long ago to talk shop, so I'm not prepared to find him here. Warmth swells in my chest and I fold my arms across myself tightly, as though that might hold the feeling down.

"Why didn't you do it?"

He starts, twisting around to look up at me. There's a strange expression on his face; a mix of surprise, wariness and something else I can't work out.

"My leg," I clarify, when his brow furrows in confusion. "It wouldn't have hurt."

Something flashes through his eyes.

"Doesn't matter," he says, quietly. "For the same reason you didn't."

And I know that's true, but I had to ask anyway. I nod, tapping on the wood that marks the doorway as I move on.

"Night," I say.

I see him hesitate, fingers spinning, his elbow resting on his leg, but he nods slowly and I slip into the shadow of my room.

There's no torch here and the world feels colder.

I kick off my boots and shed my jeans, dig my sleep shirt from the thin blankets in the hammock, and then – for no reason at all – my mind registers what was spinning in Newt's fingers just moments ago.

I take a quick glance at myself, but the hoodie is one that I've borrowed, so it falls long enough to still be decent, and I rush back to Newt's doorway.

He's gazing absently into the wall, fingers still spinning as he contemplates something.

"Who knows?" I ask.

He looks up again. Maybe I imagine it, but it feels like his eyes catch before they find mine.

"You told me you could draw," I say, keeping my voice quiet.

And he nods very slowly.

His fingers go still.

Resting between them is a thin wooden pencil.

"Just Alby," he says.

"Why did you tell me?" I want to know. He mentioned it so long ago, but with what happened after that, the conversation just got pushed to the side.

He shrugs. "You asked if there was something I'd know if I wasn't here. I think I'd know who taught me to draw. Or who I got it from."

It's at this point, belatedly, that I realise the worn book I once saw on his crate rests open on his lap, his curved body hiding the pages.

"What do you draw?" I ask.

Newt hesitates.

I watch him swallow, adam's apple bobbing at his throat, then he drops the pencil, lets it roll to the seam of the book, and he holds it out to me.

I step slowly into the room and sink to sit on the corner of the crate.

The book is lighter than I expected. The pages are smooth and yellowed. All the drawings inside are rendered in pencil. The pencil itself is whittled at the end with a number of slanted facets that tell me it's kept sharp with a knife.

Newt has sketched Homestead several times. When it was just two small huts against the woodland, during the construction of what is now the Mess hall and again later on with the collection of shacks that I've always known. Only the latest Hammock hut is missing; he drew this one after I arrived, but before the day the beam fell.

He's sketched the Glader Name wall, pressing hard to bring out shadows under the ivy and in the grooves of the names. He's sketched the field and the Lookout Tree; just a dubious platform at the top of a rope ladder, as it once was.

There aren't many, considering this must be something he's done since he arrived, but the drawings tell a story spanning three years and the evolution of a society.

And near the back of the book; leaving pages still unused, he's sketched a boy.

I don't recognise the face. He looks younger; maybe fifteen. His hair is rendered lightly; kept short, and his eyes dark. His jaw is still soft, the faintest smile pulling at one side of his mouth. His shoulders are a little too broad for his young frame and he wears a t-shirt with smudged pencil marks for dirt.

"Who is he?" I ask, stopping on this page.

"Nick," Newt says.

His eyes are sad as he gazes at the drawing opposite me, leant forward on his stool.

I remember that Nick died.

"You have his room," Newt continues quietly. "Then this-" he reaches out and turns the page. "Is George."

George is darker than Nick; the pencil pressed harder to depict him. His hair is a dark tangle, his skin a shade more tanned and freckles litter his face which is split in a bright smile.

The next page is a lanky boy with lightly shaded hair hanging in his eyes and carrying a short sword in his left hand. "Stephen," Newt says.

And there are others, too.

And there's Justin. The only one I recognise. Sketched with a slight smile, in his running harness, his dark curly hair spread across his forehead.

"Have you drawn them all?"

"The ones who we've lost," Newt nods.

His fingers flex and his eyes wander across the book. I hand it back over.

"You're good," I tell him. "Really good."

"They shouldn't be forgotten," he says.

I can't help smiling at the almost bashful tone. "Learn to take a compliment," I tease gently.

A very faint smile pulls at his mouth and I stand up. I brush my fingers across his shoulder as I head back for the door.

"Night," I say again.

He replies quietly, voice slightly rough, "Night, Eva."

…

It's the following evening when I begin to suspect I'm losing it a little bit.

We finished jobs early because of the baking heat. Summer time – though there's very little difference. So it's still light when I finish in the shower, pull on a fresh sweater and my shorts and then head back to the Homestead.

Chuck took what I said to heart, apparently, because the pranks have slowed up. People have only been grumbling about leaves in their hammocks a couple of times in the last week and there's been just one more shower incident.

But apparently the heat got to him, too, because while I seem to be lucky, I see Lee and Dan both racing for their hammocks from the other shower block as I make my way past the Kitchen. Both of them clutch their blankets around their waists.

"Afternoon, Evie," Lee says brightly, even though his wet hair is in his face.

I crush my eyes closed and wave blindly. "Hope you had a nice shower," I say in his general direction. I hear his laugh fade away as he runs onward.

I quicken my steps for the hut I share with Alby and Newt. Maybe I'll stay there until all the boys are done for the night.

I slip around the door.

I'm wholly unprepared to find Newt stood by his hammock, back to me and also wearing a long blanket knotted around his hips. His hair is still damp and water drops run between his shoulder blades. The long muscles down his back, lining the indent of his spine shift gently beneath his skin.

I let out a squeak that surprises me and clap my hands over my face, spinning around. It suddenly feels kind of warm.

"Eva?"

I nod into my fingers. "Hi. Sorry. You, too, huh?"

I hear him chuckle lightly. I can practically hear him rubbing the back of his neck, as well. He sounds a mix between amused and self-conscious as he says, "I guess so."

I was headed for my section of the hut, but somehow that's no longer an option. "I'm just going to go," I say. "I'll see you at supper."

I move blindly for where I think the door is and my shoulder buts into a beam.

I hear Newt chuckle again. Something's changed, because he sounds more relaxed.

The sound sends a burning pulse up my spine.

_Really? What the heck is this?_

There's a muffled noise behind me, and then I feel his hands on my shoulders, steering me to the left. My skin heats under the touch, like sitting too close to the fire pit at night.

I see the low sunlight as a burst of gold behind my closed eyes and let out a breath as I step out of the shadows in the hut. "Thanks."

And I jog off towards Homestead, nerves jumping with tiny shocks of energy. My heart is beating just a little too fast.

It's not far to the fire pit, but as I watch the Sloppers piling laundry into one of the wicker baskets and the others gathering on the field for games, I veer away, into the tree line.

It's been months, but I can find the tree I first climbed as easily as though it had a giant red X painted on it. I've grown fitter and more nature-wise over the intervening time, and I reach the same branch I sat on in less time, with no scrapes.

I sit quietly as my mind spins.

Newt is one of my best friends.

It started with him cropping up here and there as I found a place to fit. He was one of the earliest constants for me. And now I'm not even sure what my day is like, or life in the Glade would be if he weren't in it.

But for some reason, my brain is fixated on the scene in the hut. I looked at him for barely a second, but I can still see his slim frame, the cord down his neck and the line of his shoulders; all lightly sun-touched skin with a few scattered scars.

It doesn't feel nice to be having a startling realisation that your best friend is unfairly attractive.

But even with that image in my head, it's more like it was a catalyst for something else.

It's the person he is that I gravitate towards; the slightly broken soul, so desperately sad and angry and yet one that puts everyone else first, worries and cares for them all; drew the ones he lost so they wouldn't be forgotten. The person who didn't want me in the Maze, but let me choose for myself. The person who lent me a blanket when I was sick, who got so worried when it was my turn to protect him.

And that's what it is, I know now; that nagging feeling at the back of my mind that replays fragments of memories between us.

It doesn't feel nice to be having a startling realisation that you see more in your best friend than a best friend.

I don't like it.

Except…

…

The new sensation doesn't totally go away.

Newt wearing his usual white shirt and dark pants when I catch up to the group for supper helps a lot. And he seems to have forgotten the incident, too, which is also good. I think.

I eat with him, Dan and Zart, all of us laughing, and it's easier to think my brain had a momentary short circuit. I've seen Stan, Lee, Dan and half the others in nothing but their blankets with the same prank, and that didn't send me into a mental crisis, so this shouldn't either.

Zart and Dan decide to take a turn in the Ring, and not long after they start, and the crowd forms around them, Alby sneaks over to Newt and I in the shadows.

"Newt. Can we walk?" he asks.

Newt nods. His fingers brush across my knee as he gets up and walks away. The two friends are already muttering, heads close together and I turn back to the fire.

The skin on my knee feels ticklish in the wake of the absent-minded touch.

I spot Stan across the fire, and I can't explain it when something he said a couple of weeks ago comes back to me.

_Blondes are more your type._

I feel something in my chest, like a bubble of anxiety, pop without warning.

_Have I always felt this way?_

I sit forward, my fingers pull at strands of my hair, absently braiding them together.

The Glade is a hard life; most of the boys here are attractive in a wide variety of ways, from Minho who is probably in the best physical condition, to Zart, who is always smiling and making the best of it. It's just not something that I've noticed before.

So what if I've suddenly realised this about Newt.

What importance is it when surviving is a daily chore?

Newt makes his way back towards me. His eyes are preoccupied again, and all I can see is my best friend. My mind settles and clears.

It feels easier to breathe as he drops back down next to me.

Nothing's really changed.

Sort of.

…

"Some of the boys were shucking around at the back of Homestead," Newt supplies without prompting when he's sat beside me, elbows on his knees and curled towards the fire. "The back wall of the Keeper's hut came down."

I wonder absently who hit that hard enough to take out the whole wall.

"So you and Alby are pitching in tomorrow?" I ask.

He nods, glances over at me. His eyes clear a little and a jest flickers in them. "And you can stay well away."

I laugh quietly.

The last time I helped out on a building project, I ended up crippled.

And despite whatever epiphany hit me earlier, I loop my arm through his and lean on his shoulder as I always do without any conscious thought.

He's fire-warm and his body yields to my weight in a way that makes my heart twist.

For the first time, I wonder if I'm not the only one of us feeling this way.

It's a heady, wrenching thought.

"As you wish," I say in reply. "Just try to avoid any murderous trees."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Yes, in my head, Newt is an artist. He doesn't really tell anyone and he keeps it to himself, but I always thought he'd be the type to document passing time and the people they lost, so that's why he's drawn Homestead over the years, and the boys who died.
> 
> 2\. FINALLY Eva's connected some dots and realised she has feelings for Newt. She doesn't exactly know what they are and is still a little confused by them - and yes, it took her walking in on him half naked to force her to register anything, but the poor girl's quite blind in this regard - but at least she's got a clue now. Don't hate me - we are still a liiiiittle way off for the next step, but hang in there everyone!
> 
> 3\. A note actually on the changing relationship - Its obvious to you, its obvious to Fry, Zart, Stan and basically everyone, but for Eva herself, and Newt (though being this isn't from his perspective, its harder to tell), things aren't nearly so obvious and are a bit daunting and confusing. She can't remember ever feeling something like this before, and she has to come to terms with it. At the same time, she's putting things together and starting to get the feeling that she may have actually had the feelings for a while. Basically, its a bit of a muddle for her and on top of all of that, their situation hasn't changed; they're still stuck, still fighting to keep going every day, and Eva's just more practical than romantic, so she's got no issues laying aside her emotional drama when she has to. Newt is much the same, which is another reason its taking a while. I'm sorry to all of you who just want progress already XD but they're just not the kind of people who will turn into sappy romantics, so their progress is true to them.
> 
> Chapter 17 - Teaser
> 
> "You should head to the Infirmary," I say. "Clint's there. He can get it properly checked over. Don't let him amputate anything. Are you okay?"
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	17. The Narrow Path we Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a dead end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the day-late post. I was sedated for a dental thingy yesterday and that leaves me a little whacked out afterwards.
> 
> There are two things I'd love some input on, both at the bottom when you finish reading. Enjoy the chapter!

The next day, Alby, Newt and the Builders are all gathered at the edge of the woods behind the Keeper's hut as they work on the broken wall. I finish up in the Medi Tent and start my trek for the Bloodhouse as usual.

It's just after lunch time.

Two Runners race back into the Glade. They blaze in through the open Doors like hell is on their heels, one of them stumbling.

Both boys are dark haired, one taller than the other and they drop to the ground as soon as they're clear of the hard earth near the threshold of the Maze. The taller of the two is in a pale shirt that makes it easy to see the tears and raw skin beneath, even at the distance.

Doug and Dimitri.

I veer off course, running over to the pair of them.

I think I hear some of the Track-Hoes yell out, spotting them from the Gardens.

"Whoa, what happened?" I ask as soon as I'm in hearing distance.

Dimitri swivels to face me. He's breathing a little hard and his eyes are wide, but he's not concerning me enough to think this is an emergency.

"Outer Ring," Dimitri begins explaining in broken sentences. "Section nearly crushed him. Then we were running back through the Narrows and his leg gave out."

"It's just where I caught myself on the wall," Doug puts in, shrugging to point out the long, angry grazes up his left arm.

I turn to him instead, kneeling down and gently peeling the torn shirt sleeve open to better see the injury.

It's really a wonder this kind of thing doesn't happen more often.

"You've got some grit in there," I tell him. "It needs properly washing out. What about your leg?"

"A sliding wall hit it," he says. "Nothing broken and no blood. Just aches a bit."

I bite my lip.

He says it just aches, but he's not putting a lot of weight on it as he stands here.

"You should head to the Infirmary," I say. "Clint's there. He can get it properly checked over. Don't let him amputate anything. Are _you_ okay?"

I turn to Dimitri, directing this last part to him. He just nods, looking a little shaken.

"Yeah, fine. It's just…he dropped his pack when he fell. It's still out there and…well…"

_He needs to go and get it._

But Runners don't go out alone.

"Doug? Shuck; what happened?"

Zart and Rob both run up, taking in the situation with quick eyes.

"Tripped," Doug supplies, which is a simpler explanation.

"Can one of you help him to the Medi Tent?" I ask the pair of them. "We're going to tell Alby."

Rob jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll go back to the others, let them know what's up."

Zart nods and steps forward. Slinging Doug's arm over his shoulder, they start for Homestead with a slightly shuffling gait. I give a single tug on Dimitri's sleeve and start jogging towards the Deadheads.

…

Alby drops his machete when we run up.

His face is concerned, but not overly so as Dimitri quickly explains what happened and that Doug's already getting seen to.

"There's something else," Dimitri says, when he's finished covering the situation. "A buckle broke and Doug left his pack when he went down…We should really go and get it."

Alby's eyes flicker from Dimitri to me, and then all he does is nod towards the wood behind the rest of the Builders. "I'm going to check on Doug," he says. "You run that bit past Newt."

…

I ask Dimitri to head up to the Bloodhouse to let the Slicers know what's going on, since I never got there, and I head into the woods alone.

Newt glances up and sees me coming. "You said you were staying away," he teases.

I have to work out how to get used to my heart twisting like that.

"Sorry," I say, truly apologetic. I hate that I'm about to wipe away his good mood. "Doug's in the Infirmary."

He swings his machete down and lets it go, the blade embedded into the branch he's working on. "What?"

So I repeat the story, giving him the highlights in a rush.

"Dimitri said we need to get the harness," I finish. "Something about a debrief and Minho killing him if he leaves it."

"Minho will kill him if he takes you out there," Newt replies, voice tight but not mean. I get the feeling those words weren't even for me. He shakes his head and adds, "Minho knows what he's doing, but Dimitri's still learning; he hasn't been a Runner for two months."

And this makes all the difference.

Newt didn't tell me I couldn't go into the Maze the first time this came up, despite not wanting me to. It's not about me. It's the person with me.

Minho would never get us lost. Dimitri just possibly might.

"But Doug always used to keep maps in his pack," Newt continues. "If we leave it out there and the Grievers get it…"

_We could lose valuable information._

He doesn't need to finish the sentence.

I can see that he doesn't want me to go again, but regardless of doubting Dimitri, he's not going to tell me not to. And he's always been good at looking at the big picture.

Newt nods firmly, despite the worry I can see clouding his dark eyes. "Its gone noon," he says, voice strong and decisive. "You only have a few hours. Take the straightest path you can…"

His voice tails out suddenly, and I get the distinct impression he wants to tell me to be careful, or not to get lost, but he knows that I can't promise him either.

I can already see the weight of his decision haunting his eyes; darkness seeping into the earthy brown of them like poison.

He won't change his mind, but it will rest heavy and suffocating on his chest, just as soon as we've gone. I know because it would for me, too. I'd never ask him not to go, if things were reversed, but I wouldn't breathe properly until he was back, either.

Impulsively I move forwards and hug him.

My fingers curl into the back of his shirt and, as though it's instinct, he hugs me back; hesitant for a beat, then tightly. I don't know whether it's more for me, or whether I'm doing it to assure him. Whatever feelings I've realised I have for him, he's always been my friend first, and I don't like giving him something else to worry about.

He's warm and solid and my heart pounds, but I only let myself stay there for a second.

We need as much time as we can get in the Narrows.

There's a piece of me – small, tucked at the back of my thoughts – that wants to kiss him. It's the same part of me that is scared I may not come back, but I don't know what to make of the fleeting thought, or the swooping sensation that follows in its wake. Even if I did, I'm not brave enough to try. Not yet; not with this. And I wouldn't want it to be a goodbye.

"See you later," I say, moving away. It's the best promise I can give him.

I leave him in the woods, running to meet Dimitri at the Doors and trying to quieten my mind.

…

It's been a long time since I stepped over the threshold into the Maze.

Nothing about it seems to have changed; still the same, towering stone walls, long dark shadows and ivy creepers.

The bright, sunny field gets quickly left behind us as Dimitri leads me into the winding passageways of the Narrows.

What I learned from Minho feels distant. Cracks in stone; a broken piece of rock, weeds growing in certain places and gear teeth set into the seam of the walls, waiting for dark when they can start to shift.

But I fix my mind on the fragments I remember and try to think back to those two days as Dimitri navigates. I work on piecing them together as I run. I'll need them.

The Maze may not have changed, but I have.

I saw Justin go mad, saw him sentenced to these very paths. I watched Dimitri take his title and the weight that comes with it; saw him learn to shoulder it.

I've lived in the Glade and become part of it, truly, since the last time I was here, and somehow, that only makes it more menacing.

One wrong turn, and this place could take my life today.

Five months ago, that wasn't a lot to lose. Now it is.

…

I missed the running.

Running in the Glade isn't the same; it's a small space, really, and I know exactly how long it is; how many strides it takes to sprint from one wall to another.

Running out here feels freeing; a never ending path that I don't already know by heart and with each step it feels like I'm moving somewhere; not just standing still.

I didn't miss the way time lingers on your consciousness, ticking away. I didn't miss the ever lengthening shadows or the hollow echoing of our racing footsteps. I didn't miss the way the stillness presses into my back.

And for the first time, there's a part of me that whispers in the back of my head. _You're going to get lost out here_.

No wonder people lose their minds.

I frankly don't know how Minho and the others haven't. But then…I suppose there's a confidence that comes with knowing your way.

I never felt that tickling sensation of fear, just barely there, when Minho was with me.

And much as I do trust Dimitri, I can't convince my subconscious of that.

…

The place where Doug fell doesn't stand out very much.

I remember George's Tomb with a dim but clear ease; the dried blood, torn cloth and gouges in the walls.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I almost laugh in relief to see nothing of the kind here.

It's a simple passage, just like the ones we've been running. There's a sharp left turn at the far end, creepers hanging on the wall where it angles back on itself. There's a rough cropping of rock down one side, the crumbled stone already starting to weather smooth again.

A leather harness lies on the ground, pack tied on and one of the buckles glinting in the low light.

"That's where he caught his arm," Dimitri says, breathing deeply and pointing at the rough line of wall.

It looks almost like something quite big collided with it at some point, a long time ago.

I walk over to the harness and pick it up. It seems quite light and small, considering how important it seems to be.

The buckle that broke rests just a few feet away, bent out of shape. I pick that up too, but I can't fix it out here even though my mind can see how to flex it back to a square and loop it onto the strap properly.

It will take too long.

Instead, I put a few knots in the broken belt – knots that Eric once taught me – and pull the harness onto my back.

Dimitri still has his own, so this will be quicker.

"You both ran a long way back to the Glade if Doug tripped here," I say, half to myself. "We've been running a while."

"Coming on for a couple of hours," Dimitri agrees, eyes turning up to take note of the sun's position. "And yeah; he pulled himself up and pushed on. Its one of Minho's rules," he continues. "Don't stop running." There's a lilt to his voice that makes me think this is something he's heard a lot and been taught to memorise. "Don't look back."

"Runner's rules?" I ask.

Somehow that sounds like Minho.

Dimitri pulls a slightly guilty face, though. "Yeah," he admits, awkwardly. "Only we're not supposed to…there's things…"

He fumbles for words, and I realise there's probably things he just can't tell me.

"Let's go," I say instead.

We need to move.

Dimitri casts one last look around then nods.

I try to ignore the ticking clock in my head and how long the shadows are as we run back the way we came.

…

I figure we've been out over three hours by now.

Doug fell in the Narrows, but it was quite a way out, and based on the direction of the falling sun, it seems like we ran around to the other side of the Glade.

I'm a little surprised that I can find the space for it, but I'm still curious about how they split up to search the Maze. Its something I've not thought about before, but I realise I probably should have.

And then that thought goes flying out of my head.

We turn the corner and skid to a stop.

Dead end.

I feel Dimitri's shock and panic as though it's tangible. He recoils next to me, looking back around the corner with wide, scared eyes.

"What? No," he says, mostly to himself. "No; this- this was the right way."

My stomach jolts. "Are you sure?" I ask, knowing even as I say it that it's probably not going to help.

"Yes," Dimitri chokes. "Yes, I—Shuck. No…"

I bite down on my lip. My own panic seeps into my chest. I feel it twist inside me; a sickening sensation.

My heart pounds against my ribs and in my ears.

 _Told you,_ says the little piece of me that dreaded this; that expected it. _Lost. Forever. Won't that just kill Newt…_

His name in my head is like a switch.

 _Shut up_ , I think harshly to myself. I don't even know if my thoughts are true, but the fear that caused them churns in my chest, solidifies into something fiercer.

I breathe through it, feeling adrenaline flood white hot through my blood. My heart races but my head clears. I look more intently at the dead end.

There are no gear teeth in the seam of the walls. It's just a square alcove on the end of a path.

Dimitri paces back up to the last turning and I can see the tremor in his shoulders.

I look up. The sky is pale and the sun so far out that I can't see it. It won't be long before it's below the height of the walls, and then we'll have minutes, not hours before the Doors close for the night.

And I recognise nothing of where we are. I don't even think Minho brought me this way back when Ben was sick.

I move away from the alcove and block Dimitri's frantic pacing.

"Hey," I tell him, fighting to keep my voice level and firm. "Hey, look at me."

And he does.

His pupils are blown wide and his face is pale, but he fixes his eyes on me.

"Breathe," I say. "This isn't the right path, but you were fine up until the turning, which means we're looking for a left hand turn with another left at the end, right?"

For a beat, he stares at me, then it's as though his brain kicks into gear.

"Right," he agrees. "Yes. And it was the third turn on that long passage."

"So we go back to that passage," I say. It was only two turns back.

"We could lose our bearings," Dimitri protests, but his voice is uncertain.

"No, we won't," I say. "You know that passage, right? Where did we come through? What did it look like?"

I'm hoping Doug taught him landmarks and surroundings the same way Minho taught me.

"Uhhh…"He grips his hair, eyes squeezed shut, and then words start to flood out. "Wait – Ivy. It hung in this strange cross pattern, and there was the forked crack right underneath with the weed patch growing on the right. But we came from the other side, so it would be – Oh! Wait. Shuck, I'm sorry – we came through further down than before so I counted wrong. It's okay; I know where we're going."

And as soon as he'd fallen into panic, he pulls himself out of it.

I'm left reeling a little bit, though the lingering fear is still lodged between my ribs like a knife. I feel it like a sharp pang with each breath.

His hands squeeze my shoulders, and I can't even care that they're a little clammy. His face has flushed with high colour in his relief.

My relief won't come yet.

"Thanks, Eva," he says. "Come on."

So we pick up again, and double back.

…

We left a sunny field, but when we sprint back down the tunnel, the Glade beyond is approaching sundown. The grass is bathed in soft gold, the shadows long, slender and tinted in purples while the sky is a vast gradient as night is drawn slowly over us. There's a hum of activity in the village and the work stations are quiet.

Dimitri and I burst into the open grass.

"They're back! They're back; get Alby, get Newt!"

The shout goes up from the Lookout Tree. I look over that way, still breathing hard enough that I'm slightly light headed, and see three Gladers take off running for Homestead.

I can just about recognise Zart's pale blonde hair, shining in the late afternoon light, as he waves exaggeratedly from the top.

I wave back, somewhat wearily.

Behind us, the Maze groans. The rush of artificial wind blasts through the Doors, and then they begin to grind closed.

"Thanks," Dimitri says, quietly.

I turn to him. "It's okay," I say. "You couldn't go on your own, and this way, the Grievers don't get your maps."

I shrug out of the harness and hand it over.

After what he didn't really say in the Maze, somehow I figure this is something I shouldn't really know about, either. They're certainly not something I should see.

Dimitri takes it, but smiles wryly and says, "True, but I didn't mean that."

_Oh._

"Hey," I say to him. "You're still new at this. It takes time to learn; that's what Minho told me. We got lost once, because you misjudged an exit by one path. It could have been a lot worse. But you should tell Doug. He can't help you get better if he doesn't know."

I'm glad I sound fairly steady, because I'm still acutely aware that it really could have been far worse. That sensation of a near miss lingers just under my skin, a prickly kind of foreboding.

Dimitri nods, looking slightly frazzled. "Thanks anyway; for calming me down."

"What are friends for?" I say, rhetorically.

He huffs an exhausted laugh, but before he can reply, there's another shout.

"Are you both alright?"

Alby is striding quickly towards us. I can't help my eyes sliding straight past him to Newt, who's keeping up pretty well despite his limp. I'm a little surprised none of the others flooded out to meet us, but I'm a little too relieved to question it.

"Fine," Dimitri says. "How's Doug?"

Alby glances at me. I swear I see the faintest of smiles on his face, and he claps Dimitri's shoulder, steering him straight back to Homestead. "Fine, Kid. Come on; we'll go see him."

They move away.

I look back at Newt. I'm not sure which one of us moves first, but then he's hugging me tightly, one hand tangled into my hair, and my arms are fixed around his back. He's still warm; solid and grounding. I think I can feel his heart beating rapidly and he breathes out against my hair.

The adrenaline rushes out of me.

The ' _what if?_ ' that prickled under my skin burns out. The sense of relief finally sinks in, a cool, pleasant weightlessness that fills my chest.

I'm bone tired; my legs feel shaky thanks to the running and my heart feels shaky with the after-effects of fear pulsing through my veins.

"Eva, wh-bloody– what happened?"

I actually laugh as I pull back.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Just…tired, really. Dimitri took a wrong turn-but its fine!" I hasten to add, when I see his expression hollow. "We're fine."

"Why couldn't the bloody Shanks have picked it up while they were there?" Newt asks. His voice is a little exasperated, and I know it stems from what must have been a tense afternoon while we went back for the harness. I think it's a rhetorical question, too, but I still shrug.

"They weren't thinking straight," I say, even though I wondered at this, as well. "Probably didn't notice. Doug was in pain, Dimitri probably panicked a bit and the strap broke- which reminds me-"

I fish out the bent buckle from my pocket, turning it over in my fingers.

"I need to fix this."

Newt deftly plucks it from my hands, the shadows finally leaving his eyes as a faint smile crosses his mouth.

"Get some rest," he says, turning me towards Homestead. "That can wait."

And yeah, it can.

There's a shower calling me, a clean change of clothes, some of Frypan's cooking, Gally's Brew and an evening by the fire. As far as I'm concerned, until tomorrow, everything can just shucking wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> Sorry guys, this is going to be a long end note...
> 
> 1\. It honestly is a wonder this hasn't happened more. I figure its actually fairly common for the Runners to come back with scratches and bruises; Eva just isn't always around for it. Less often they get more seriously injured, but it must happen. So that's that.
> 
> 2\. It was time for a return to the Maze. I wanted to explore how different factors can change your perception so easily, and how Eva's changed herself over the past couple of months. This chapter is more for character than plot, though there are still little bits in here that are relevant later. There's a few thoughts here, so bear with me. Dimitri is still relatively new to Running himself, so he's still uncertain at times, and given he's only ever run with Doug, having Eva along would put more pressure on him, which means he's more liable to panic with less prompting. Eva has only ever run with Minho, and much as she wants to have faith in Dimitri - and does, really - she's still carrying her own fears that he'll forget the way or freak out. As for Newt - who Alby gave the call to - he's handling both of those things and his own fears, in that decision-making role. Obviously he's worried for the both of them; relatively inexperienced and out there alone, and that's what I was struggling a bit to put across. Eva isn't a Runner, so she has to rely on her partner for navigating. Newt simply, and justifiably, trusts Minho far more than Dimitri to do that job, which is why he has his reservations.
> 
> 3\. Leading us to this. Why go back out at all? Remember that this was Newt's call. As far as anyone is concerned right now (and there's a hint of it in the conversation between Dimitri and Eva) the Runners are still mapping the Maze. They're still gathering valuable information each time they go out, and Doug draws that down. To Newt - who wants out more than anyone - that's a lot to potentially let the Grievers destroy and they may even forget where they left the pack. In the end, he had to weigh up his personal worries about Eva and Dimitri against the unbiased choice he would make as a leader. He has enough trust in the both of them that he decided it was still safe enough to let them go but Eva is very aware of that choice he had to make and that it wasn't too easy.
> 
> Its quite a complex thing I was trying to indicate, because this happens more in Newt's mind than Eva's and you only see her perception of it, so I'm sorry if it was a bit confusing. Hopefully this explanation helps a bit if you read it.
> 
> 4\. Eva does compare this trip out to her first ones with Minho a little bit. In actuality, she had already been a Glader for a couple of months before going in the Maze, and it wasn't so soon after her arrival. Just bear in mind that the narration is Eva's, so in this instance, her perception of the passed time is a little skewed. It feels longer to her, and it feels like a lot has changed, so that's what comes across.
> 
> INPUT PLEASE?
> 
> 1\. A sequel? This currently ends not long after where the first movie leaves us. There's a whole 'nother world I really want to explore that will delve deeper into some of the themes that are just undertones in this story – what makes a person who they are, and so on – and I have a general idea where I'd take the story. The problem is that I haven't completely read Scorch Trials, and even if I had, this story is mainly based on the movie continuity, so ideally I should wait for the second film to get a timeline of events before working on a sequel.
> 
> So – yay or nay to continuing it, and if yay, wait until I can match it up to the second movie, just match it to the second book as best I can, or would you be happy/prefer me to take it in a bit of an AU direction? Let me know your thoughts :)
> 
> 2\. AU oneshots of the Eden Switch world. By this, I mean I'm entertaining the idea of my versions of the characters, including Eva, but in other lives, just for fun. A roadtrip during college, a university campus/dorm life and so on (ideas welcome; this fandom seems to love AUs). They'd likely be one shots, just for fun, and unrelated to this story's timeline. Someone did express interest, so I'd love to get an idea of it in general. Again, let me know!
> 
> Chapter 18 - Teaser
> 
> Oh no.
> 
> "You can stop with that look, Eva," Frypan says, without even looking at me. "It's going to be fine."
> 
> -To be posted at the weekend-


	18. Up in Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an experiment and chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go; sorry its a bit behind! Enjoy the chapter!

I sit alone by the cold fire pit the following morning, as we all eat breakfast out in the sun. Doug's leg is fine – he was already back to jogging on it by supper time – and his arm is bandaged up, so Clint cleared him to get back to work.

I'm all too happy to let them do it. My last trip into the Maze isn't my favourite memory and I don't want a repeat of it just as much as I don't want to dwell on it.

So I sit and watch Alby with Chuck as I finish up my breakfast.

The leader and the youngest.

I know Chuck looks up to Alby, but I also know that Alby has too much to oversee to really be a constant presence for him.

Alby is showing him how to whittle.

The tiny lump of wood in his hands slowly takes the shape of a very simple duck as he talks to him about how to tilt the small knife.

I'm reminded of my own whittling attempt and the silver birch bow. I've tried using it just a few times more, mostly in the early morning. I can barely hear it creaking any more, now the noise is so normal and it slowly feels more and more natural to hold. The arrows fly straighter – or maybe I'm just learning how to compensate for the bow's inaccuracy.

Chuck looks up from his lesson and catches my eye, drawing me from my thoughts. He smiles brightly at me and I can't help returning it.

He's been here for three weeks and a couple of days. He's far from the terrified boy he arrived as.

The next Box Day is on the horizon.

Frypan drops down next to me.

"You look a little lost in thought there," he says. "Want to share?"

I look over at him and shrug, "Nothing fascinating."

He continues to look at me so I nod towards Chuck and Alby. "He isn't the same kid," I say.

Frypan shakes his head. "None of us are," he says. "But you're right about him. I don't know how I'd have handled coming here any younger."

"Two years, two months ago, right?" I ask.

He nods. "I was fifteen, I think. None of us really _know_ , do we?"

I feel compelled to reach out and pat his shoulder. He gives me a sympathetic smile in return.

"Say, you think you could drop off the eggs and milk a little early today?" he asks, changing the subject.

I let it slide without comment.

"Sure. Want me to get them this morning?"

"If Clint and Jeff don't mind," Fry says. "I'm experimenting with something."

"Sounds…interesting," I say optimistically.

I just hope it doesn't go anything like the time he and Stan decided to try making mince pies.

Frypan laughs. "Have faith, Evie."

And I have to admit, though some experiments haven't worked out exactly to plan, Fry has never turned out something we can't eat.

"I'll get on it," I tell him. "Thanks for breakfast."

…

So it's thanks to Frypan that I'm even in the Kitchen two hours later when things go wrong.

Clint and Jeff said all the jars were stocked, so they were just going to do a supply check before heading for the Deadheads for some ingredients. So I was told I could spend the day with the Slicers, or in the Kitchen, if I was found a job that wouldn't blow the place up.

The irony.

I finish with the goats, letting Pepper out of the little set of milking stocks into her pen and I collect the jugs of milk, as well as the basket of eggs from the chicken run, and head for Homestead.

When I duck into the Kitchen, it's a little bit chaotic.

Stan is helping a boy called Alex to lift a massive round pan from the main table. Frypan is mixing something in a bowl the size of a dustbin with an enormous wooden spoon. One of the younger boys, Scott, works with Newt – who I figure has been roped in to help – to tip up a barrel of Gally's Brew into a line of jars that are warming around the hearth.

There are a handful of other boys at the smaller workbenches dicing up the usual vegetables and seasoning cuts of geese.

I raise an eyebrow at the commotion. Usually, despite the amount of food needed to feed everyone, the Kitchen isn't quite so…all over the place.

I figure this is to do with Fry's experiment.

I set down the milk and eggs on the end of the main table and move around it to Frypan.

"As requested," I tell him, pointing to the supplies.

He beams at me. There's a smear of flour on his cheek.

"Thanks. Right on time. Could you crack a couple of the eggs in here?"

I look into the massive bowl. It's a creamy mix that's quite lumpy and dry looking.

And then I register what he said.

"I'm sorry, you want me to what?"

Newt snorts behind us, and I throw him a brief look that I hope says 'shush, you' before turning back to Frypan.

He hesitates, expression twisting and I'd say he's feeling sorry for his mix.

"You're right. Hold this." He pushes the spoon into my hand and moves around me to pick up the basket.

With a skill that I kind of envy, he cracks two eggs neatly open – the show off does two at once – and lets the contents drop into the bowl.

"Mix!" He orders, turning for the milk.

"You've got to be kidding," I mutter. I start to mix anyway.

I was not made for kitchen work.

In fact, as we established in my first week, I'm fairly hopeless.

The mix is too heavy for me to work effectively, but I'm doing a sort of mash up job of it when Fry returns.

He gives me a dubious look.

"Hey, you left me with it," I tell him.

Laughing, he takes back the spoon and hands me a copper pitcher. It looks like it's been thrown around a few times, judging by the dents in it, but it holds the goat's milk just fine.

"Pour slowly," he instructs.

I do as he says, and under Fry's attention, the mix in the bowl softens up and smoothes out.

"This isn't bread, is it?" I ask.

Bread wouldn't be this gloopy, surely?

Frypan shakes his head. "No. It's going to be a cake."

_Cake?_

In as long as I've been here, I've never had a cake.

"Then what's this for?" Newt asks.

When I look around, he's set down the barrel of Brew and is nodding to the line of glass jars in front of the fire. He looks sceptical.

"It's going to be a special cake," Frypan amends.

I bite my lip as a smile fights its way onto my face.

_Oh no._

"You can stop with that look, Eva," Frypan says, without even looking at me. "It's going to be fine."

And it might well have been.

…

"Alex!"

The shout rings through the hut.

We all spin around.

Alex has lost his footing, and he topples sideways into the workbench. The huge pan he and Stan were balancing tilts and smashes into the floor. Steaming hot broth – today's lunch – spreads out across the ground, sizzling when it drops into the fire.

Stan catches himself, grasping his hand, which I guess has been burnt.

The pan spins on its side right into the line of jars.

They all topple into the fire.

There's an awful cracking sound, like twigs being stepped on in the woods, or fire eating away at kindling, and the fireplace blows out across the room.

Shards of glass spray through the hut.

I throw myself down, landing behind the toppled workbench that caught Alex.

The blast of heat coats the atmosphere inside the hut and there's the strong smell of burning everywhere. I feel uncomfortably warm and frazzled. The air seems thick and muggy.

My hand _hurts_.

A moment passes.

Smoke clouds the room.

I sit up.

My ears are ringing, but that will pass. So will the slight dizziness. My side aches where I threw myself on the ground but I'm more concerned about the nasty slice across the palm of my left hand.

I adjust myself gingerly and pick out the shard of glass in my skin, trying not to think about the bright blood on it.

I toss it aside.

"Everyone okay?" Frypan asks.

I turn to where his voice came from.

I can vaguely hear yelling outside – it sounds like the others are coming.

Someone groans nearby, and then I see the shadow move. Stan. He slowly gets up.

"Shuck," I hear Alex say. "Newt's bleeding."

_No._

The sharp pain in my hand going very suddenly to nothing but a passing ache despite the thick blood running down to my wrist, I stand up and turn for where the voice came from.

The smoke still coats everything; unable to escape thanks to the well thatched roof. I spot Alex crouched by Newt's unmoving body through the grey cloud.

I'm next to them in the next breath.

"Can you walk?" I ask Alex urgently, even as I turn Newt's head.

Newt groans faintly, and I feel my pulse thump in relief, so hard that for a second I feel light-headed. If he's conscious, he isn't dead.

"Yes. I'm okay, I think," Alex says. "A little dizzy. Feel kind of…sick."

"Possibly a concussion," I say. "You need to get out now, and get Clint and Jeff. If you see anyone on the way, tell them there's a lot of smoke and some people might be unconscious."

Alex is nodding, a little frantically, looking paler by the second.

"Understand?" I press.

"Yes. Yes. I'm gone." And he gets up, picking his way a little unsteadily through the broken tables.

I feel a prickle of guilt for being so brief with him, but I can't focus on it right now. And Alex is a good kid; he'll understand.

"Newt?" I ask, turning to him.

"Eva?"

His voice is confused more than anything. He blinks his eyes open, and they're clouded with pain and puzzlement.

"What the bloody hell happened?" he asks with a thready voice.

"Gally's Brew is flammable," I say.

That seems like the simplest explanation right now.

"Really should ask what he puts in it," Newt mutters.

In other circumstances, I'd find it funny.

"Stay still," I tell him.

There are pieces of glass still stuck in the skin high on the side of his head. I don't think it's a serious wound, but the amount of blood is scaring me a bit. I reach across to gently pull out the shards – they're not buried right in, so there's no risk of him bleeding out more with them gone.

I feel the gash in my hand tug, blood dripping, and bite back the pain of it.

Should have used the other hand. Oh well.

With the glass removed, I pull off my sweater, turning it inside out and wad it up to press to the side of Newt's head. He looks at me but doesn't speak.

Frypan crouches next to me.

"Scott caught his leg under a table," he tells me. "Stan's got a mild burn. The rest of us are okay; just shaken, I think. How is he?"

"He'll be okay," I say, and it helps me believe it. "He was standing in front of the fire; he copped it when the jars shattered." I glance behind us. "You need me to check on Scott?"

I don't want to leave, but if Scott is stuck…

Frypan rests his hand on my shoulder. "Stay," he says. "Clint's just got here."

Grateful, I nod as he walks away to check on the rest of his team.

When I turn back to Newt, he's trying to sit up.

"I said stay still."

His hand comes up and his fingers curve around mine, where I'm still pressing the grey sweater to his head. Its half soaked through, and it takes me a second to realise that it's not just his blood – my hand's continuing to bleed a fair bit; the blood mixing in a way that makes me feel a little ill.

"You're bleeding," He says to me, pulling my hand down and opening the fingers gently. His voice sounds clear for a moment.

I flinch as it tugs at the torn skin and for a second, concern washes over the pain in his eyes.

I pull my hand back, pick up the sweater again and turn it to a fresh piece of the cloth. "Here," I say. "Hold it on. And don't move."

Newt gives me a look that says quite plainly that he's humouring me, but he holds the cloth against the wound on his head.

I stand up.

By this time, Jeff and Clint are both on the scene. The smoke above us is clearing out and the sunlight is filtering back through the walls.

The kitchen looks like a mess, but not exactly the bomb zone it felt like just a few minutes before.

Only one of the tables toppled completely. One of them has a broken leg, which sent it off-kilter but the rest are fine barring a few scorch marks and blackened edges. Shattered glass is all over the floor and there's still some of the amber Brew glinting on the ground in front of what's left of the fire.

Alby strides into the hut.

"What happened?"

"It was an accident," Stan says. It looks like his arms are scratched up from the jars and the side of his hand looks blistered, but he seems okay otherwise. "Just getting something started for supper and Alex tripped. Knocked some jars into the fire. We didn't know the stuff was flammable."

"Everyone's okay?" Alby checks.

Imposing as Alby can often be, he doesn't really get angry with anyone. Fear is no way to lead, and he knows that, but he's also just not an angry person.

"I think so," Fry says. "Scott's got a bruised leg and Stan burned his hand but they'll both be fine. Clint's taking them to the Infirmary. Newt got hit in the head; Eva's with him."

"She's bleeding, too," Newt calls from behind me.

Before I can express my annoyance that he's brought it up, Alby fixes his eyes on me.

"Minor," I say, even as I feel the blood starting to congeal around my hand. Some of that blood is Newt's. I know it.

"Both of you need to go to the Infirmary, too," Alby says. I see him turn his eyes to Newt – his oldest friend – and he tries to mask his worry. "Gally's outside trying to see if there's any structural damage. The rest of you, get outside, take showers and then come back. Zart and Winston have brought their teams down to help clear up."

Frypan nods and begins to rally the Cooks.

Newt stands up, my sweater held loosely in his hand.

There's no way all that blood is coming out.

He seems a little disoriented, so I give Alby a nod and then go to help support him as we pick our way out of the Kitchen.

…

It takes fifteen minutes for Jeff to finish cleaning my cut and wrap a bandage around my hand after checking over Newt.

"It's not deep," he says. "It'll heal up. Just try not to move it too much for a bit."

Newt sits on one of the pallets in the same sectioned off room. His eyes are no longer clouded with pain, but he looks like he can't focus too hard for too long.

"Mild concussion," Jeff says.

He's talking to me.

Newt's bleeding has stopped, and once he was cleaned up, it was easy to see that the entire wound was three jagged cuts near his temple.

Head wounds bleed a lot, even with a mild injury.

I know that, but I'm still relieved.

"Just patch him up as much as he'll let you," Jeff says. "He may be a little disoriented, could be some memory loss – just temporary. And he may need to be woken up every few hours tonight."

I nod.

I know this, but it's reassuring to have Jeff state it.

"I'm heading back to help clear up," he says. Then, out of nowhere, he smiles.

"We told you to find a job that _wouldn't_ blow up the Kitchen."

Startled, I can't help laughing.

The smile on Jeff's face breaks, and then he's laughing, too.

Still chuckling, he pats my shoulder and ducks out of the room.

The amusement bubbling inside me fizzles out into something more relaxed as he leaves and I turn to Newt.

"I'm not going to get a bandage wrapped all the way around your head, am I?" I ask Newt.

He looks up a little wearily.

"No," he says. "It's fine. It's not bleeding anymore."

He leans forward, bracing himself on the side of the pallet to stand and I place my hand on his chest, my fingers resting on his collarbone.

He sinks back down and I don't even have to use any pressure.

"Stitch strips, then," I say.

He doesn't look wildly impressed, but he stays still as I put tiny white tabs from the medical kit across the cuts, holding the skin together.

"Keep it clean," I tell him when I finish.

He nods. He looks slightly out of it again, but at least he's not swaying or looking confused about his surroundings. He'll be fine.

And I think I know how it was for him, the day I took the beam or after the Maze that last time; to feel relief like a tide, low in your stomach, too strong to put to words.

I can't really stop myself. I lean forward and gently kiss his forehead, just under the mussed fall of his hair. I hear his breath rush out softly.

"Take it easy," I say quietly. "I'm going to go and help."

I turn away.

Fingers close on my wrist, and I'm tugged gently back.

I'm about to ask what's wrong, when I see the look on his face, and the question dries up in my mouth.

Newt's eyes are sharp, something very strange resting in them as they move from where his thumb brushes the bandage on my hand, up to my face.

My heart twists again; that yearning, contented feeling I'm trying to adjust to.

He stands up. He's not unsteady at all.

He lets go of my wrist and his hand slides underneath my hair, around to the back of my neck and he tugs me gently forwards.

We're already standing so close that I barely move before I collide with him and his mouth seals over mine.

He's impossibly gentle, kissing me like I'll shatter in his grasp.

I'm suddenly not so sure I won't.

My breath catches on a sigh and I kiss him back.

He surprised me – I never really knew he wanted this, that he'd thought about it, too, even if I'd wondered or hoped – but I only register that dimly. I'm too focused on the white heat that races through my bloodstream and floods into the pit of my stomach.

I feel his other hand slide into my hair, tilting my head back until my lips part under his and he presses closer; deeper. My arms slide around him, fingers grasping the hood of his shirt, gripping tightly, keeping me grounded.

My pulse races; I feel it like a separate entity. The bandaged palm of my hand throbs. There's something slightly yearning in the way his mouth moves over mine that I return with ease. He tastes like honey and wood smoke.

A knot forms in my chest with how much I _want_ this.

I pull back, a little startled with the intensity of my own emotion. My eyes fly open, and I can't remember closing them.

Its one thing to hypothetically think you might be into your best friend; but admitting it to yourself when its actually happening is a little different.

And I have no memories of kissing anyone before, but from the way I can easily react to Newt I wonder, with something like panic, if I did before my past was taken.

There's so much to panic about, but the main one is that when I back up, Newt slowly sinks back to the pallet. He's wincing, looking a touch off balance as his fingers press gently to the side of his head.

_Bad idea._

He's concussed.

He may not have known what he was doing – despite how much it sure looked like it – and even if he did it on purpose, in the hour after getting the head injury, the chances of him remembering it are fifty-fifty.

And he means too much to me for me to let something he did while possibly delirious ruin our friendship.

"Hey," I say, quietly, leaning down to him.

He looks at me, and there's a touch of something unfamiliar in his brown eyes; blown wide and rimmed with honey-gold.

The look alone is distracting and it takes me a second to remember what I was saying.

"Rest, okay? You're no help to anyone if you can't stay upright."

"Sure," he says. His voice is very soft, and I don't know if it's the concussion or the kiss. The sound leaves a pleasant hum under my skin. "Thanks, Eva."

I press my fingers off of his arm as I stand and leave.

This time he doesn't stop me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. hehehehe - the bit most of you seem to have been waiting for...not that everything will be plain sailing from here on...
> 
> 2\. Bascially this entire chapter is relevant later. Literally things you may not even think of. So I'm not going to explain too much here, because the explanations will come when the story comes back around to them :) Feel free to speculate, though - I'd love to know your thoughts!
> 
> 3\. Alex and Scott are two more Cooks. They've always been around, but I've only introduced them by name here. There's enough of a cast of characters in this already, so I didn't want to overload you all too soon. Alex and Scott weren't really necessary before, so that's why you got a delayed introduction. In the same way there's obviously more Builders, Track-Hoes and Slicers than I've put names to. I'm not going to flood you with names and characters that aren't really relevant.
> 
> 4\. Head wounds do bleed a lot, even if they're very mild, so that's not an exaggeration. Similarly, Eva's wound isn't really deep but being in the crease of her hand, it does bleed a fair bit and will be a pain even if it's not serious. While I've taken some creative liberties, I haven't done that with the injuries. As much as possible, all those are as true to life as they can be.
> 
> 5\. What I did use creative licence on was how the liquid ignited. It could be possible, but I don't know for sure (attempts to research it were driving me batty). So maybe something safe to drink wouldn't quite cause a blast like that, and if it doesn't...hopefully you can suspend your disbelief for a bit.
> 
> SEQUEL/AUs
> 
> A sequel will likely go ahead. I'd love to write one, and I have ideas for it up the wazoo, but I think I'm going to hold out until the movie arrives to try to keep it somewhat in line with the canon. So it just depends if I still have the inspiration for it in September. Fingers crossed I do.
> 
> AUs are definitely something I want to explore. I'm working on an outline for a Roadtrip one, but I'm happy to take on suggestions for settings for others. No promises on when they'll be ready.
> 
> The companion series of other perspectives on this story is in the works. Hang in there for that!
> 
> Chapter 19 - Teaser
> 
> Frypan bangs it down at the end of our table and plucks a wide knife from his apron. "Come and get your cake!"
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	19. Time (and Cake) Heal all Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is sponge cake and recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the late update, guys! In short, my family and I have been looking to move house for a long time, and the ball is finally almost ready to roll, so there's a lot of mania in clearing up the house this week so we can get it valued. Haven't stopped all day. So here we are - enjoy!
> 
> We pick up more-or-less directly where the last chapter ended. By all means re-read to remind yourself first :)

The Kitchen is set to rights without too much fuss.

The smell of burning still lingers, along with the blackened tables and pans, but after a rather simpler lunch than was planned, Frypan and the Cooks returned to their stations.

I find - watching them all duck into the entrance - I'm mildly impressed with their ability to just carry on.

I figure I shouldn't be, given boys have died in this Glade, and the injuries today were nothing in comparison, but I feel it anyway.

Not long after everyone settles back into routine, I'm kidnapped by Lee and Frankie on my way back to the Medi Tent. They frog march me up to the Bloodhouse, telling me they're going to cheer me up and keep me from moving my hand.

So I spend the next few hours on a stool in the Butchery and they clean knives, tidy the worktables, decide on rotas for next week and have a spirited debate about the best way to cram a decent sized deer or cow into the Box, as Lee thinks he'd like that more than goose.

They basically drag up any chore they can so they don't have to cut up one of the animals while I'm in there.

And I'm grateful for that, not to mention laughing, when the sun drops low enough that it's time to pack up.

We all leave the hut and make our way down the field, meeting up with the Track-Hoes as we go.

The Kitchen looks fine from the outside, but I can still smell burning straw from fifteen feet away.

Giving Lee and Frankie quick hugs for stealing me for the afternoon, I leave the two teams to themselves and head back for the Medi Tent.

It's not until I get inside and catch sight of Alex that I remember he was told to take a break from work, too.

I glance in the other partition on the way to the end, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed that Newt is gone.

"Eva," Clint greets me.

He and Jeff have spread out their day's foraging on the workbench. They're working to organise the various leaves and berries into piles. Empty jars stand by. I can't help a mental grimace as my palm twinges in some kind of strange sympathy.

"Tell me they didn't let you move that hand today."

I laugh and shake my head. "No, it was all very 'Doctors orders'," I say. And then, because the question is starting to burn in my throat, "Where's Newt?"

Jeff gives an odd little half-smile. "Minho dropped by as soon as he and Ben were back. Frypan told them what happened. Newt looks fine; says the moments right after the blow out are a bit fuzzy, but that's it. I told them both to go, and Minho said he'd keep an eye on him anyway."

I nod. That's good. I think.

"And Alex?" I glance back at his section again. "He's still looking a bit…"

"Definitely concussed," Clint says. "He's a little confused, a bit nauseous and has a thumping headache. He'll be okay, but it may take a day or so. Stan's going to come and get him later then watch him overnight."

"Near as we can figure, he hit the back of his head against the table when it went over," Jeff says. "But that's about it. We're almost finished here and you're still banned. We'll see you at supper."

Sighing – I really don't like being banned – I reluctantly duck out of the shack, leaving them to their organising.

…

It's getting dark when we all gather in the Mess hall for supper. I slide onto a bench next to Zart and Rob with my dish of broth.

"How's your hand?" Is the first thing Zart asks.

My eyes drop to the pale bandage encasing my left hand. My thumb doesn't move too well with it on, but at least I don't have to look at the cut right through the lifeline of my palm. That didn't make me feel too well.

"Not bleeding anymore," I say. "Still stings a fair bit, but I've got some anaesthetic stuff on it. Have you seen Stan?"

"Was back in the Kitchen to help serve up," Rob puts in. "I think- there he is."

I look over my shoulder and Stan is sitting down with Alex and Scott. They all seem to be talking quite lightly, considering they were all in the fireball earlier. Stan's hand is wrapped in a bandage that matches mine.

He looks up and smiles at me.

Smiling back, I turn to the Gardeners sat with me. "At least he's okay," I say.

"Alex looks better," Zart says. "I didn't think he'd be eating anything tonight."

In just in the last couple of hours after I left him with Clint and Jeff, Alex has started to look better. "He'll be fine," I say, and it feels like it's all I've been saying all day. "Stan's going to prod him awake all night and keep an eye on him, but most of the dizziness usually passes in a few hours."

"It was Gally's Brew?"

Dan slides onto the bench opposite me, spearing a lump of broccoli with his fork but leaving it in his dish.

I half shrug. "Yeah. They got knocked into the fire and we didn't know it was flammable, whatever it is. The Brew caught light and shattered the jars and everything just –" I make a rolling explosion noise in my throat to finish the sentence.

Dan shakes his head, letting out a long whistle. "Ouch."

"Well," says Frypan from behind us. "If this is bad, I can blame it on that."

I look around.

Fry is holding a massive flat platter of beaten tin, and on it rests an enormous golden sponge cake, with a layer of jam pressed in the middle.

My eyebrows go up. Zart and Dan's mouths drop open.

"Is that…a _cake_?" Zart asks, like he's being shown a map of the exit to the Maze.

Frypan's smile lights up the entire hall. "Yes it is. And considering the hell we went through to make it – you'd all better love the shucking thing."

His voice is loud enough to carry, and a cheer goes up all around.

The nights of laughing and cheer are still too few and far between.

Frypan bangs it down at the end of our table and plucks a wide knife from his apron. "Come and get your cake!"

There's a stampede.

Dan, Zart, Rob and I stay planted in our seats, laughing, as the boys line up around our table, holding out dishes that they've hurriedly scraped clean from supper.

It's just a cake, but you'd think Fry was offering flying lessons.

It's a wonder he's never thought to make one before.

"Has he never made one before?" Rob asks.

He's been here a shorter time, and Zart claps him dramatically on the shoulder.

"Dude, he's _never_ made a cake before."

The line goes down, boys heading back to their seats with little slices of sponge cake.

Frypan dumps slices into each of our empty bowls before he gets up, taking what's left of the cake with him.

"I'm going to hide this," he says, casting his eyes around the room.

He moves past us, and on the way, he tips a second slice of cake into my dish.

"Give that to Newt," he says.

He nods towards the opposite wall, and when I turn, I can see Newt and Minho just sitting down with the other Runners. Minho looks more carefree than he does during the day, and Ben's saved a slice for him, by the looks of it.

"Sure," I say to Frypan, eyes still on the other table. "Thanks."

I feel him hurry off back to the kitchen through the side door, cradling the last pieces of his cake.

In front of me, Dan chokes.

We all look at him in surprise as he coughs, eyes watering.

"Dan?" Zart asks.

"Holy…" he winces. "Shuck, what's he put in it?"

I'm already laughing.

"Goat's milk and two eggs…that I know of," I say. "And…well, some of Gally's Brew was going in it, too."

Dan looks at me, his eyes still streaming.

Zart gives his cake a very dubious look, but takes a deep breath and stuffs a forkful in his face like he's eating a pinecone, rather than sponge.

His face colours almost instantly and he swallows hard, sucking in a breath.

I'm still laughing, trying to hold it in with a hand pressed over my mouth. Rob gives me a look torn between horror and amusement.

All around us, people are spluttering and swearing. Two tables down, I see Lee take a bite and promptly spray sponge-crumbs over Eric as he tears up.

"Maybe it's an acquired taste?" Rob asks tentatively.

Dan coughs again. "Sure. You'll acquire it when you're _dead_."

Zart blinks rapidly. His colour dies down. "S'not bad," he says.

He shovels another piece in.

I turn to my own cake, a little concerned, but I force myself to stop laughing and pick up my fork.

I'm one of these guys now. I can't not try.

I put a small piece in my mouth.

The sponge is dense and a little dry, but it's not a bad texture. I think there might be a bit of honey in it, and something like blackberry makes up the jam.

But it's hard to tell with your taste buds being fried by the very strong rush of toxic acid that is Gally's Brew. For the first time, I wonder if we drink it every night in a diluted form.

And this isn't it.

I start coughing, but I've already swallowed, and the trail of zinging fire races down my throat.

Zart pats me on the back and Dan gives me a sympathetic look.

"He's trying to kill us," I manage to say, through tears.

"Isn't it like a done thing, though?" Rob asks. He hasn't touched his cake. "To put alcohol in cakes? I'm not sure."

"You _lace_ it," Dan says. He's finally talking normally again. "You don't _drown_ it."

I'm laughing again.

"My tongue isn't working anymore," Henry says, somewhere behind us.

"Your _tongue_?" I think that's Frankie that shouts back to him. "This stuff is burning away my _stomach acid_!"

Not far from Henry, Gally sits, not affected in the slightest as he shovels in spoonfuls of cake and starts pinching bits from neighbouring dishes.

Though I figure it's not wise, I take a second bite.

It still burns – it's like someone's holding a sparkler in your mouth and you're breathing in chilli powder all at once. But my cough reflex doesn't kick in.

I wonder, as my eyes water again, if Zart has a point. It might get easier to bear with practice.

But still, maybe future cakes should leave out that particular special ingredient.

I use the back of my thumbs to clear the tear tracks from my face, even as I laugh some more at Dan and Zart, both fighting through the rest of their slices.

Glancing across the hall, my eyes catch Newt's.

He looks amused, which is always good to see on him as I know he hates this place like no one else. I figure that's because all the Runners around him are choking on their cake, but something in his eyes goes still as he looks at me.

A strangely warm feeling gathers in my chest that has nothing to do with the burning of the cake.

Making a decision, I turn back to the others.

"See you in a bit," I say. "Got to deliver this."

Dan smirks at me. His eyes are red. "That'll be good. If only they gave us a camera."

I start laughing again as I take my dish with me and slip between the tables.

I drop down sideways on the bench next to Newt.

"Nice, isn't it?" I ask the table.

Minho's eyes are streaming, which seems to be a common reaction. Doug's cheeks are dark as he winces and Ben hasn't stopped coughing.

"Amazing," Minho croaks. He tries for deadpan, but the crying spoils it.

"I love it so much," Dimitri rasps, face low over his dish and fist clenched around his fork.

Trying to at least keep my laughing silent, I push my dish in front of Newt.

"Fry said this bit's for you," I tell him. "Enjoy."

Looking a little bit alarmed, Newt's eyes dart from the dish to me, and then scan the room.

"You heard Minho," I prompt him further. "It tastes amazing."

He raises his eyebrows, eyes fixing on me now, and his expression clearly says 'You liar'.

"Don't be a chicken, Shuckface," Minho wheezes.

Newt, looking like he's doing it under extreme protest, picks up his fork.

Its nights like these where I can forget, just for a little while, that we're all trapped. It's the people that make a place, and this Glade is just as much a prison as it was yesterday, the week before, and on my first day, but the boys in it are family.

And having a family makes all the difference.

…

I quickly get annoyed with having to keep my hand relatively still.

"It has to scab properly," Clint tells me on at least three separate occasions over just two days.

I think I prefer having a bruise the size of a branch on my leg.

At least with that, I could still use both my hands without a second thought.

But each day when I get help changing the bandage and reapplying the salve, the skin is surely knitting together. I can move it more without that angry tug across my palm that reminds me of broken glass and too much blood.

…

Chuck begins counting down the days until the next Box arrives. There's less than a week to go and the kid is buzzing with anticipation whenever he's not actually asleep.

Frypan thinks it's quite funny. Alby thinks it's to be expected. Gally could care less.

Chuck pulls a few more pranks to let out the energy.

Frypan thinks it's hysterical. Alby finds it mildly amusing. Gally threatens to make a noose.

…

Frypan announces, three days after the Kitchen Explosion that he is going to make a second cake.

Everyone decides that just one was probably enough.

He's convinced to try pancakes instead.

…

"Is there any of Gally's Brew in this?" Newt asks, dropping down next to me that evening. It's dark already and we're all gathered around the fire pit by Homestead.

Newt holds out a dish.

There's a flopped over pancake resting in it, the surface nicely coloured with a generous drizzle of honey syrup over the top.

I've never before eaten a pancake - that I remember.

I'm just slightly concerned there's another secret ingredient in it.

I can only shrug helplessly as Newt lifts his dish, eyeing his own pancake like it'll cave under the pressure and admit how it was made.

"Don't know," I say, truthfully. "Haven't been near the Kitchen all day. Dan took the eggs and milk down because Lee got scratched up by one of the chickens."

Newt casts me a look. He's amused, that much is obvious, but there's a hint of something softer and quieter there that I recognise from the day of his concussion, but still don't recognise.

"We didn't have chicken tonight," Newt says, with a questioning lilt to his voice.

I shake my head. "Lee dropped it and they scattered," I tell him. "Frankie called him a wimp."

Newt snorts.

I steel myself and use the fork to break off a piece of the pancake, shoving it into my mouth before I can think twice.

Its just a little soft in the middle, and the edges lightly charred, but what it lacks in flavour is made up for in the rich honey. It's sweet, just a bit sharp and leaves a tang on my tongue all on its own.

And it drags my memory back to kissing Newt; the hint of honey and the woods I tasted in him.

The thought jolts in my stomach and I cast it aside.

"Fry should stick to pancakes," I mutter, forking another piece into my mouth and humming contentedly.

Newt makes a choked sound and I wonder if he's trying not to laugh.

He finally starts on his own dessert, and for a few minutes, we sit in silence, the fire crackling in the pit.

Eventually, he looks across at me, nodding towards the bandage still around my hand. "How's your hand?"

And I glance down at it, too.

"Aches," I say, truthfully. I'm sort of beyond lying to him, now. "Bled a lot at first, but it's really okay."

I haven't asked him about that day; about what he remembers and what he doesn't. I'm not sure how to. I like us as we are now just as much as I feel the yearning for something else send a pang through my chest sometimes.

So we just continue.

I throw off this thought, too, and look up at him. The cuts on the side of his head are healing over quicker than my hand, and they're just pink lines on his skin now, one just touching the corner of his eyebrow. They'll fade before too long.

"My head's fine," he says, eyes focused across the fire. A smile lingers on his mouth as he teases, "Bled a lot at first…"

I laugh and whack him across the shoulder. He sways away from the hit, chuckling and seizes my wrist just a bit too late, grip gentle on the bandage.

It strikes me again that somehow we've come to know each other without words; he didn't even need to look at me to know I was going to ask.

So I just nod and lean into him as always, turning my attention to where Minho and Alby are wrestling in the Ring.

"Good," I say.

For a heartbeat, I think he's looking down at me.

But then he shifts gently and lets out a long breath; the warmth of it flutters across my neck. I feel him relax, and the niggling feeling dissipates.

I still want out; I still want to leave this place; I want that freedom, and I want it more for everyone here. But I still wonder if I'll miss the moments like this; the moments when no one is dying, in danger, angry or scared.

And I wonder if it's okay to feel like I'll miss it.

And then I wonder if I care.

Because we will get out; and I can miss my hammock, the fire pit, the animal pens and these dark evenings with Newt if I want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. No real answers yet on 'Does Newt remember?' Sorry about that, all I can say, is its all worked out, so do your best to hang on and enjoy it until we get there :) Eva may not be quite so oblivious but she is still human, and the last thing she wants is to damage her friendship with Newt for something unknown.
> 
> 2\. After a quite manic plot chapter, this is a quieter one that is more about character, again. Balance and all :) And I wanted to show that while Eva's recognised a change - and in fact something has changed quite significantly - that doesn't mitigate everything she and Newt have built so far; their scene by the fire is a very familiar one physically, even if there's a slightly different emotional tone. Heck knows if that makes sense...
> 
> 3\. The cake. Honestly, I don't think Gally's Brew is a dilution, but it could well be. Maybe something in the cake reacted, maybe Fry misjudged some stuff, or deliberately overdid it to give everyone a laugh. Its entirely up to you to decide exactly why it was quite so...yeah. Strong.
> 
> Sorry for no teaser this time - Can't find a good bit without giving away too much :)


	20. On Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tensions run high and Chuck is promoted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Busy couple of days, so this is getting posted on Sunday night, sorry about the delay, but here's hoping you enjoy the chapter :)
> 
> Also, with this update, we are now approximately two thirds of the way through the story (whether you see that as good or bad...)

"It's late."

_Yes. Thank you._

We all know the box is late. It's due today; everyone's sure of it, and yet it's gone past lunchtime and still not even a rattle from the tunnel under the red doors.

Gally's the one to speak.

He's wearing one of his typical 'I'm not happy' expressions and he looks about one more needless comment from starting to pace a trench into the ground.

Newt throws him a look that's partly understanding, and partly exasperated. "It'll be here," he says patiently.

There's something in his expression, though, and I think he's nearly as worried.

A few of us have gathered outside Homestead, by the fire pit as the afternoon wears on. It's not like anyone can really focus at this point, anyway.

I'm sitting on one of the logs, legs out in front of me, rolling up bandages.

My hand is almost totally healed; it's sealed over, but still a little tender. I'm just thankful I've been able to return to using it. The cut wasn't deep, and like Newt's injury, the bleeding was a bit over the top for the severity of it.

Lee and Eric stand the other side of the ashy pit, their eyes darting repeatedly to the Box platform and up to the sky, as though trying to read the time. Gally and Newt stand not far from them.

Rob came down to fetch some ties from a store hut and stayed, Henry is doodling what looks like a two storey treehouse with a stick in the sand and Stan, Alex and Scott are all gathered in the kitchen doorway; Scott absently stirring away in a bowl as he stands.

Alby's tension isn't helping. He isn't even stood with us, but the fact that he's been a little short and abrupt since lunchtime, and is now stood at the top of the Lookout Tree, just waiting, kind of puts a cloud on everyone. Newt's basically taken over keeping an eye on the Gladers. He handles leadership well, even if he doesn't always like it.

Newt's eyes catch mine as Gally folds his arms with a huff.

I can read that expression easily.

I stuff the bandages into the satchel and stand up.

The weather has only been getting warmer, and I'm still wearing my hacked up shorts with the long, borrowed sweaters. The rough fabric of the bag settles against the softer skin at the back of my thighs as I throw it over my shoulder. The weight of it itches, but the bags are useful to carry around.

"Okay," I say. "Lee, come on – let's head up to the Bloodhouse. Rob, you should head off, too." I shift my gaze to Eric and say, "We're not doing any good waiting around."

Rob nods briskly and takes off at a jog without hanging about.

Lee and Eric do a fist bump. As I step around the fire pit to them, Eric seems to take the words to heart. He picks up a sling of branches and nods his head to the side, nudging Henry, who also gets to his feet.

"I'm going to go finish this," Eric says. "Henry; come on. It'll be fine, Gally."

"I'll catch you up," Gally says, unmoved.

He actually looks like he's bursting to say something.

"Okay, and we're gone," I say lightly. I pass Newt and give him a tiny nod as even the Cooks duck back into the Kitchen. At least I've been able to clear out most of the gathering.

Newt smiles faintly at me as I catch up to Lee, but it's not an easy expression.

Gally's already turning to him to get his rant off his chest. I can't hear most of it as I leave them by Homestead, but I catch words – late, changing, problem, mess, prepared…and I'm reminded that Gally is Gally, and any upset to the system is one he takes to heart.

But Newt can handle Gally better than most people with his persistent level-headedness, so I'll leave that to him quite happily.

There's still things to do and there's still hours left of light. It's too early to panic yet.

…

I've finished in the Medi Tent for the day, and am setting out the usual vegetables and leftovers for the rabbits and goats when Chuck finds me in the pens behind the Bloodhouse.

"Hey," I call to him. "What's brought you up here?"

Chuck leans on the gate, sighing. His expression is downcast beneath his curly hair. "Passing time," he says. "The Greenie Pack's all ready and we've cleared up Homestead and finished Laundry for the day…I just thought I wouldn't still be the Greenie by now."

I can only offer him a sympathetic smile.

Since the Cake Incident, Chuck's excitement has only been increasing on an hourly basis.

Alex recovered from his concussion; Stan's hand already has shiny new skin where his burn was and Newt's been fine since the day it happened.

If he remembers everything that happened that day, I still haven't asked.

The memory of him kissing me is seared into my mind. And I can be brave about some things, but not this. I still don't really know if he remembers, and I can't bring myself to ask him. I content myself with the memory and that nothing between us seems to have changed. Losing him over it would be worse than not knowing.

And while we all recovered and got back to normal, Chuck turned to the pranks.

Until late last night, when he started asking questions non-stop.

It's hard enough being the youngest – it's easy to see why he doesn't want to be the newbie, too.

But the Box hasn't arrived, and I can't even begin to find an excuse for that for him.

I leave the pen and Chuck falls into step with me as I drop the empty feed bucket at the back of the Butchery. I swap it for the rake and let myself into the chicken pen.

Chuck sits on a barrel as I quickly tidy up the ground and check the water dishes.

"How's everyone else doing?" I ask him, to pass the time.

Chuck shrugs, "Okay, I think. Everyone's working, but you can see them looking at the Box and the sky and worrying. Gally's got a bad feeling."

Gally is one of the boys in the Glade who choose to believe what we have is a true sustainable way of life, and it's ours now. I know from seeing him just a little earlier by Homestead that he's definitely been upset by the delay. 'A bad feeling' seems to be putting it lightly.

"Come on, then," I say the next minute. I let myself out and stand up the rake. "Let's head back down to Homestead. I've got things to drop off and I'm sure you can find time to do something else."

Chuck nods, putting a half-hearted smile on his face. I pick up the jugs of milk and basket of eggs I collected before feeding time and we both start the trek down.

We're just approaching the Kitchen when the alarm blares across the Glade.

Chuck looks up, his eyes bright and his sad smile blossoming into something elated. "Alright!" he says. "I'm going to go and check the stuff."

He hurries away and I don't think to tell him that it'll be a little while before its time to hand over the sleeping roll and supplies.

I'm still standing on the spot when Frypan goes rushing past me with Stan on his heels.

"Eva!" He cheers when he spots me just outside. "You coming?"

"I'll catch up," I say, making myself move again. "I'm just going to put these inside."

Fry throws a thumbs up over his shoulder and I duck into the Kitchen.

The others are just throwing lids onto various pans as they all go running outside, too. I set down the milk and eggs and follow.

By this time, I can see that Lee, Dan and Rob have all helped to pull open the doors of the cage and Gally's already hauled up the new boy. He's still on his back in the grass, clearly panicking as he looks at the assembled faces.

He's got short, dark hair and is wearing a long sleeved blue shirt. Across the field, it's hard to tell his age, but he doesn't look nearly as young as Chuck, which was a concern for a few people.

And then he forces himself to his feet, knocks aside Zart and Jeff and _sprints_.

I stop, still halfway across the field.

No one tries to chase him.

He's fast, but he's also running in a total blind panic, and I can see the outcome just before it happens. He loses his balance; weight too far forwards.

He slams into the ground hard, tumbles over himself and sprawls in the grass.

_Ouch._

The boys all cheer. It is a little funny. When you've seen the exact same panic several times over and you know they're all as okay as you can expect to be a few days later, Box Day reactions can be kind of amusing.

They all make their way for him, as the boy slowly rises to his feet.

From the expression on his face, to the way he slowly turns on the spot – no longer focused on the Gladers – I can tell he's spotted the slightly bigger issue of the Wall.

He doesn't even fight back as Billy and Jackson herd him to the Slammer.

…

He's not left there for long. An hour later as everyone gets through their last chores for the day, I spot Alby walking him through the field.

"Another Tour," Clint says beside me.

They pass a little closer to the Medi Hut, and it's easier to see that the Greenie is taller than I am, probably around Newt's height. He looks a similar age, too – seventeen or eighteen – rather than fifteen or Chuck's twelve. He takes most of it in without talking much and he's trying to look at everything at once.

He and Alby move on.

I'm left frowning as I mash up tea tree for a remedy. Something about him is different; he's been here a couple of hours at most and already it's like he's mentally cataloguing as much as possible.

There was none of the usual stream of questions when he arrived.

I've moved on to scraping the pulpy medicine from the bottom of the mortar I've been using when a shadow falls across us.

"Any of you seen Chuck?" Newt asks. He looks like he's thinking a fair bit, too.

Clint shakes his head. "Sorry, Man."

I set down the grinding bowl. "He was with me earlier; said he was going to get the pack ready." Clint gives me a nod as I stand up. "I'll see if I can find him."

Newt turns after me and we fall into step, turning our backs on the field.

"He's been called for, then?" I ask. "He'll be happy."

Newt smiles faintly. "Yeah. I think Alby just needs a break. Chuck can get him settled."

"Maybe," I say, absently as we make our way around to the back of Homestead. "He's different."

Newt shoots me a look. There's something strange laced with the curiosity in his eyes. "In what way?"

"He panicked for all of about five minutes," I say. "As soon as he saw the walls, he just kind of…went still. I've watched Alby walk him around, and it's like he's just kind of, I don't know – waiting?"

I look over at him and realise we've stopped. "I don't know what it is; but I've not seen Winston or Henry or Rob just calm down after half an hour in the Pit and then get on with it. Has he asked any questions?"

Newt looks contemplative as he nods. "Yeah. Alby introduced me properly a minute ago. I told him I thought he might have been fast enough to be a Runner – if he didn't faceplant. He just asked me what a Runner was."

"So before he asks anything about who he is, or who we are, or why he's here – he wants to know about that? That word can't have any meaning for him."

Newt looks over his shoulder, but we're alone. "Gally's concerned," he admits.

"He came up late and now he's not acting like the others," I say. "I'm not surprised. There's Chuck."

Newt looks across to where I point.

Despite the distance, it's easy to see the youngest is partway through stringing up a new hammock in the space next to his. There's a kind of nervous excitement to him as he works.

Newt looks back at me for a second, and I get the odd feeling he wants to say something else, but then he turns and signals for Chuck.

The boy looks over at us, smile still on his face.

"You're up," Newt calls. "Alby wanted you. They should be at the Lookout Tree soon."

"I'm on it," Chuck yells back.

He hauls up a huge, neatly arranged pack from the ground, and it almost buries him, but he shuffles it and makes his way off, just able to peer around the armload.

"I need to talk to you," Newt says, as soon as Chuck is gone.

There's something serious in his tone. "Sure," I say. "What is it?"

He tugs me gently further into the shadow behind the Mess Hall. "There's a bow under your hammock," he says, and it's not what I was expecting.

I've had that there for ages now, and not touched it for a little while, either, what with the Kitchen explosion and my hand getting cut up. No one has noticed before.

"How do you know?" I ask, frowning.

He doesn't look straight at me as he shrugs, "I was looking for you. Glanced into your room. I could see it out of the edge of the sack you keep in there."

_Well, at least that's an explanation._

"What of it?" I ask.

Newt looks down the path we've walked again. There's something unsettled in his expression. "I've never seen you use it. Not once. And no one else has said anything, so I'm guessing they don't know. But you're right; this kid is different and we don't know if that's good or not."

He turns over my hand, and drops a tiny collection of cold pieces into it. I pick one up and it takes me just a second to recognise seven slender arrowheads. They're made from delicate but sharp-edged pieces of flint, all slightly different shapes and colours.

They're strangely beautiful.

"Wh-" I half ask. "Where did you get these?"

His eyes stay on the arrowheads in my hand. "Eric asked me to give them to you," he says. There's an odd note in his voice when he asks, "How does _he_ know?"

I look up at him, curling my fingers around the arrowheads. "We're in cahoots," I say. "He got me the branch and left out the spikes I used for the arrows. I didn't really tell him anything, but he must have guessed."

"Bloody builders," Newt mutters. Then he does look at me again. "Start using it," he says. "If it works for you. One day we are going to get out, and if you know how to use a weapon you'll be safer."

He really means this.

I somehow know that agreeing will give him some peace of mind, so I nod firmly.

Relief flashes through his dark eyes, and though I expected it, it still makes me feel better about actively learning to injure something.

"I've got to go," Newt says, and I nod again.

My mind is still on the conversation when he gently cradles the back of my neck and kisses my forehead. He leaves, sweeping past me.

I'm not even surprised. I still wonder if he remembers kissing me – really kissing me that day – but right now, I don't need to know. We're still us; what we've always been. We're easy together, and that's enough for now.

There's too much else to worry about.

…

By twilight, everyone is muttering about the new Greenie's attempt to escape.

Gally technically saved his life, but also got him riled up in the process so all the Keepers had to step in to defuse the situation before he ran off into the Maze.

"At least you just hid in a tree, Evie," Frypan chuckles. "You should have seen him; actually looked like he was considering making his escape through the Doors."

Well, it's true that the Doors and the Maze beyond are really our only options for escape. But when you consider that those Doors were about to close, that night is coming, that the walls keep changing and that the boy had no idea about any of it…well, it does seem just as ridiculous an option as Frypan makes it out to be.

I gather the armful of hay from the ground by the table where Fry is laying out the Feast and make my way for the fire pit.

"Can we drop the tree thing, now?" I ask, teasing. "It's been five months."

Frypan sighs. His jolly mood seems to quieten.

"Feels like longer," he says.

All I can do is nod.

It's always felt like forever to me. I wonder how long it feels to the boys who have actually been here years.

I start stacking the hay clumps into the pit between the twigs. The sky is already gathering darkness.

Across the field, Dan, Winston, Lee, Frankie, Jeff and Rob are all trying to coral the wild hog that came up in the box with the Greenie. Someone dropped the cage as they lifted it out and the pig made a break for it.

They've been trying to catch it for around an hour now.

Zart joins me, starting to set out his own arrangement of twigs.

"Met him yet?" The Keeper asks, jerking his head to the side.

I glance past him at the dark haired boy. He's sitting pensively, eyes darting about and at his side is Chuck. He's not been left alone since apparently trying to escape through the Doors when all the Keepers, Newt and Alby had to race over to stop him.

"Not officially," I say. "Been wrapped up most of the afternoon. You?"

"Nah," he says. "He looks quieter than the others."

_He's different._

It's on the edge of my tongue, but I don't say it.

Newt's seen it, too, and as he said – it could be good or bad. Until we know, better to avoid scaring anyone.

"Some people are shy," I say instead.

Zart sniggers. "True."

There's a loud wail, and we look up. The boy sitting by Chuck starts like someone's set fire to his hair.

Lee goes sailing past us, dragged along on his front as he hangs determinedly onto a rope around the pig's middle. Its hard to work out what is the pig squealing and what is Lee yelling for help.

"Get him, Lee!" Dan cheers as he runs after them.

I sit back, giving Zart space to finish stacking twigs as he laughs.

The others make their way over to us as Newt and Alby appear from the Kitchen. Both of them carry torches and Frypan follows them out with a handful of unlit ones.

The Box Feast is about to start.

Just as soon as Lee manages to catch the Feast part.

…

This boy is called Thomas.

Gally doesn't like him.

Newt spends a chunk of the evening talking to him – apparently he does have questions – and then introducing him to some of the faces in the Glade as everyone celebrates around the fire. Apparently he took me seriously when I said he should try doing the tour and introductions. With Alby being so tense all day, he's probably not explained as much as usual.

I'm sitting with Dan and Clint when Gally throws one of his Builders out of the Ring and he knocks into the Greenie.

He's quickly chanted into the Ring himself, with Jeff leading it on.

In less than two seconds he's out. He tries again, and again. He manages to catch Gally off, but doesn't get out of the way quick enough.

When the boy's head hits the ground, it shakes loose his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Its mentioned briefly in the movie that the box came up a bit late. Basically I used that and just embellished on it. Given the way Alby is with Chuck, they clearly have a quite laid back relationship, which is what indicated to me that Alby must be more relaxed in general than we see him for most of the film. So while he can be a bit single-minded in my story, I feel like his very to-the-point manner with Thomas had to be brought on by something. Hence using the mention of the Box arriving late as a catalyst. After that, I think we can blame most stuff on Thomas XD
> 
> 2\. Slowly, you may start to see the parallels come up, and little bits of daily routine that are in the movie itself. Don't get me wrong; there's still a lot of story to go, and we're no where near all the answers yet, but having caught up to the start of the movie, you may start to notice these small things. The 'Greenie Pack' for instance, that Chuck mentions, is something every new arrival gets; a hammock, sleeping roll, pillow, food dish, flask and so on. I didn't completely invent this; it was shown in a deleted scene, and I elaborated.
> 
> 3\. The boys trying to round up the pig and failing a bit dismally at it is also something I elaborated on. In the movie commentary, Wes Ball says it was something he wanted to incorporate into the background of the scene where Newt and Thomas talk at the log. In the end, they couldn't get the pig to perform so the idea was scrapped. But that idea was taken from Wes and my pig was more cooperative :)
> 
> Chapter 21 - Teaser
> 
> Stan stops in front of us. "All yours," he says cheerfully.
> 
> Thomas just gives him a bewildered look as the Cook hurries back to Homestead.


	21. Things that Happen the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which history repeats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: A general thank you to everyone who stops to read, bookmark and comment on this story! It is honestly amazing all the attention its gotten and all your thoughtful feedback as things progress is invaluable. Thank you :)
> 
> Here we go! Hope you enjoy it and on with the story! And maybe you've already done it, but I'd also deeply appreciate anyone who passes this on to their friends and so on, if you feel they'd enjoy it, too!
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Some upsetting scenes with dark tones thanks to the Banishing. Scenes depicting grieving.

By the following morning, I've not even really met Thomas properly, still.

Despite learning his name and being cheered at the Box Feast, the evening passed without him really talking to most of the boys, and definitely not me. He seemed preoccupied and daunted – perfectly normal reactions – but also strangely focused.

It wasn't difficult to see the way his eyes would stray from the Gladers to trace the towering shadow of the Walls.

So, though I've not spoken directly to him, I just get a slightly odd feeling, and I can't decide whether him being here is good, or really bad.

It dawns clear and bright, and by late morning when I get pulled up to the Gardens by Jack, the sun is beating down something fierce.

Rob accidentally split open his thumb on a pair of shears. His face looks a little white as he presses down on the wound, blood already drying on his skin in the heat.

So I sit down with him to sort him out.

"Its quiet here," I say as I clean up the blood with antiseptic. The allotments and wooden framework 'greenhouses' that support the creeping plants surround us, and they're all empty of Gladers.

"Corn field," Rob says, indicating with a tilt of his head. "Zart was checking it over, and it's not far off, so we're all out there watering because of the heat. That, and keeping snails off."

Behind the allotments the cornfield has grown taller than my shoulders. Some of the taller boys can be seen moving between the rows, but mostly the Track-Hoes are distinguishable only from the rustling paths they make.

"You keep the snails off by hand?" I ask, not even sure what I'd expected.

Rob smiles, "Well, kinda. We just watch to see they're not eating away at them, and if they are we have this repellent spray that Zart and Frypan made that they hate. You can't just throw them, because snails can just go straight back like a homing beacon unless you chuck them far enough, and the Glade isn't that big."

I finish wrapping his thumb with some tape to keep it safe while he works, and realise I'm staring at him.

"How on earth did you learn so much about snails?"

Rob shrugs, and I think his cheeks flush slightly, but that could easily be the heat. "Apparently one of the guys just knew some things, but he can't remember exactly what, or how, and the rest of it they just worked out by actually throwing snails. They marked them and everything to test. They started explaining it all to me along with the tools and when to pull up what."

Rob looks like this is just normal stuff – and I realise that to him, it probably is.

But I find I'm fascinated.

And amused. I can easily imagine the Track-Hoes drawing numbers or shapes onto snails and lobbing them across the field, just so they'd know if the same ones came back.

But on the whole, it just makes me think of how many lives are contained in this small space. Little things constantly bring this back to me.

I never became a Track-Hoe, so there's a lot of it I just don't know about, but it's a humbling feeling to know that while I was learning about poultices and feeding chickens, Rob would later learn about what makes a ripe carrot and how to keep snails off the crops.

"Am I good?" Rob asks, raising his thumb.

I nod, shaking myself. "Yeah, sorry. Just try not to use it too much, and if it bleeds through the tape, pressure, elevate and head to the Infirmary. Don't take it off."

"Sure thing," Rob agrees.

No sooner has he headed off, Zart and Jack both head towards me, ducking out of the corn field with huge, dented watering cans.

Zart's cheeks are flushed and Jack's shirt is stuffed in his pocket; his lightly built frame is bare and tanning across his shoulders.

Around them, other boys are starting to file out for the next lot of water. Some of them have ditched their shirts again, too.

"Is Rob okay?" Jack asks. Having dragged me up to see to him, Jack disappeared to get on with his own chores.

I nod, throwing my supplies back in my satchel. "He's patched up," I say. "Looks worse than it is."

Zart nods.

Then his eyes dart past me, and something of a wicked smirk appears on his face. "Ooh, here we go," he says.

I look over my shoulder.

Thomas is traipsing across the field with Stan. His brow is furrowed, and he looks a mix of confused and irritated as he keeps pace with the younger boy.

"Hey, Newt!" Zart yells out in the direction of the corn field.

I can't help looking up. I didn't even know he was up here.

Probably a good thing, too.

Newt stands up at the yell. He was leant over the water pump, filling cans. His blonde hair looks messier than usual and like Jack, he's cast off his shirt; the orange material is thrown over his shoulder carelessly as he works.

He twists towards us. I may imagine it, but I think his gaze catches when he spots me, before sliding to Zart, and then straight in the direction he's nodding.

His expression morphs to one of mild exasperation and amusement when he spots Thomas, and he promptly turns back around to the pump. Newt has a lean, wiry frame and with his back to me, it's the long muscles either side of his spine that I can see stretching under his skin.

The warmth spreading up through my chest and pressing into the pulse in my wrists suddenly has very little to do with the sun. It's the same image that seared into my mind after I walked in on him following Chuck's shower prank.

I bite down on my lip, turning quickly back to Zart.

"What's going on?" I ask.

Zart is beaming one of his typical, face splitting smiles by now. "Newt ended up sort of in charge of the Greenie," he explains. "Dumped him with Fry in the Kitchens earlier to see how he'd get along while he came to lend a hand with the corn. Last I heard, he told Fry that if it didn't work out, to have someone bring him up here."

So I guess it didn't work out.

They've drawn closer; I can see now that Thomas looks to be talking. Judging by Stan's face – a little tuned out and a little overwhelmed – it seems like he may have been talking a while.

I feel myself smile faintly. Everyone struggles in their own way. Rob was a bit shy, Chuck was terrified to talk, Henry was a bit of an ass and I tried to impale someone. If Thomas' way of adjusting is to question everything, then it's not exactly the worst way of coping.

And yet, it's probably one of the best ways to send the older boys around the twist.

"Looks like we're sticking around," Newt says, suddenly right beside us.

He's pulling his shirt back on as he speaks, and lifting up his machete harness which was resting in an unused wheelbarrow.

"I'll find him something to do by the greenhouses," Zart says. He nods to Jack, handing over his can. "Can you organise them?"

Jack nods, jogging away to round up the rest of the team.

Stan stops in front of us. "All yours," he says cheerfully.

Thomas just gives him a bewildered look as the Cook hurries back to Homestead.

I bite down on a smile. Stan has quite clearly wiped his hands of the whole situation.

Thomas turns to Newt, who speaks before any more questions can come out.

"Time to see if the Gardens fit you, Greenie," Newt says, shrugging his shoulder to comfortably settle his harness in place again. "Come on."

Shooting me a fleeting look, Newt leads Thomas towards the allotments, and I stand up, brushing down my jeans.

"Well, I'm done here," I say. "I'm off. Good luck."

Zart chuckles as he heads off to find Thomas a task. "Ah," he says over his shoulder to me. "It can't go that bad."

…

I've learned that tempting fate with phrases like 'it can't go that bad' is very much not a good idea.

Despite the warmth, it seems to be developing into a normal day as I return to the Medi Tent. Despite my misgivings about Thomas, I can sort of believe that life will continue in that way; our little world, just as it always has been.

And then our world is shattered.

…

Ben is stung in broad daylight.

The good hearted boy who was Minho's friend and who taught me to punch.

Thomas runs from the Deadheads, screaming, with Ben right on his tail. It drags Gladers from all over. Jeff and Clint rush off ahead of me, but I can't make myself join them.

I linger further back, just behind the crowd, my heart like a lead weight in my chest.

Newt swings another shovel into Ben's face.

I feel sick.

The nausea claws at my stomach and closes up my throat.

My vision swims; my memories surging up to another bright day, another poisoned boy, another sickening crunch of metal to bone.

Justin stopped haunting me a long time ago, but now, what happened to him feels real and present all over again.

It's the same.

Almost exactly the same; Justin chasing me through the wood, Newt throwing aside the shovel, that bleary look of madness.

And it's a searing cold burn; like dry ice hollowing me out from the inside.

_This has happened before._

_It will happen again._

Ben blinks. There's blood on his temple, and his eyes are confused and terrified as Alby stands over him.

A web of poison pulses black under his skin.

My stomach ties in knots. I can't breathe around the pain of it.

I can't watch this again.

I'm not strong enough to watch this again.

I can see that same weight in Alby's face that was there the day Justin attacked me as he makes his call. The weight of doing unthinkable things because you have no better option.

Ben is carried off, his screams following him. He'll be banished at sundown. He'll be dead by sunrise.

Ben scratched Thomas – dug his fingers into his arm in crazed fury – so Jeff patches him up with a typical poultice and bandage.

Even more things the same.

The ending won't be any different.

…

Lunch is late and quiet. I'm picking at the food in my dish when Dan drops down next to me. He looks more understanding than I'm possibly comfortable with.

Before he can say anything, Chuck sits opposite us.

"Everyone's acting weird," he says. "What's going on?"

I bite my lip.

How can I explain to him what's going to happen?

Dan clasps my shoulder gently.

"Ben's been stung, Chuck," he says. His voice is low.

"Alby said that," Chuck says. "Thomas was asking about it. Alby said it was the Changing. That he's dangerous and getting worse."

Dan nods. "There's no cure. The infection will only spread. He's going to be banished tonight."

Chuck's eyes widen.

He wasn't told that part, I realise. I nudge Dan as quietly as I can manage. He seems to understand.

"Don't watch, Chuck," he says. His eyes are sad. "He can't stay in the Glade when he can hurt others. But you shouldn't have to watch."

_But I do._

I can't just let myself walk away. I know Ben – knew him – better than I ever did Justin, and I try to brace myself for it hurting even more, but I can't just hide and pretend it isn't happening.

So as the sun falls and the other Runners make it back, The Keepers go to collect the posts from the Council Hall and assemble at the Doors.

The ritual is the same.

Minho looks a little broken as he has to walk Ben, still streaming apologies and begging wildly, through the others to the threshold of the Maze.

I'm already crying.

I can feel the tears running down my face, hot even in the warm weather. My throat has closed up completely. My chest is tight, and trying to breathe feels like a battle.

I see Thomas standing back from the rest, Chuck at his side.

And as the Maze roars, and the Doors begin to grind, Alby calls for the posts to be lowered.

Ben's face goes frantic; no longer himself, just an embodiment of desperation.

The madness is all that's left of the boy I knew.

Chuck turns and leaves, and the tiny part of me that has room for it is grateful. He doesn't need this to haunt him like it did for me.

Thomas stays. He never moves close, just as I keep back.

The sadness is crushing. I think, at least I've seen this before. I know it's for the best and that Ben – in his right mind – would rather be banished than hurt someone.

But it's new to Thomas.

And it feels even worse to see it through his eyes as he looks on in a mix of confusion, despair and complete horror.

We're not monsters. But maybe it looks that way.

…

The tears still course down my face long after the Doors still and the posts are set down.

I walk away, drop into the shadows behind the Butchery; silent while everyone gathers at Homestead. I lean my head back against the wall, stare into the sky and fight to breathe through the pressing tightness of my chest.

The rapid, shallow breaths catch in my throat for long minutes, and I watch the sky darken. The shadow around me stretches, and then lifts as the sun fades. I'm left in a blanket of twilight.

Ben's face flashes through my mind; the genuine little smile the first time I punched him properly. I grasp onto it tight. This is the memory I want; this is the one that will keep me sane.

Slowly, I find I'm breathing properly again.

I feel wrung out and shaken and still kind of hollow. Wrecked. I can feel the drying tracks of tears on my skin. I swipe at them haltingly.

But I slowly stand up.

There's no bonfire down by Homestead yet, but I can see the wavering torches, glowing like fireflies against the trees as the boys move about. I traipse over for the pump near the gardens, splashing water on my face and neck.

The cold chases away the demons.

Its hard to think that just this morning, I was up here talking to Rob about snails and very much trying to _not_ stare at Newt without his shirt on.

I let out a long breath. Feeling a little better - if mainly due to exhaustion and my redirected thoughts - I head for the village and the others.

I duck into the Mess hall quietly, and a few faces turn to me, expressions relieved and concerned at once. Zart is sat at one of the tables with a jar of Gally's Brew and in the middle of what sounds like a wild story about Ben's first day, trialling a job as a Track-Hoe.

They did this for Justin, too, and probably all the others, but I never joined in.

"Eva!" Stan whisper-calls me when I pass his table. "Hey, you okay?"

I nod, only now realising that some time has passed and no one's seen me since the Doors closed. Knowing them, they probably worried. "I'm…okay," I say carefully. "Just…"

Stan nods, smiles, like he gets it.

I smile gratefully in return and move on.

I don't even realise I'm searching for Newt. Not until I drop into a space beside him and lean into his side. His arm curls around me in an almost subconscious motion and the pressure on my chest loosens. He pushes his jar of Brew across to me.

He doesn't speak, and nor do I.

I pick up the jar, gulp some down and slide it back. The burning, stinging sensation is doubly welcome right now; helping to replace what's left of the hollow feeling.

We share the jar, and the stories carry us into the night.

…

Ben's name is crossed out on the wall by the time the sun rises.

_He belongs to the Maze now._

How many more boys will belong to it before we're done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. You're probably starting to see the parallel timeline come into play here. We're starting to see some of the scenes from the film, just from an alternate perspective, and interspersed with other occurences that are Eva's alone, rather than Thomas'. This is part of the fun I have with limited narratives, but hopefully its fairly clear where these scenes fit with the film for now.
> 
> 2\. Yes, a bit more shirtlessness. Just a bit. For funsies. And also because it is a little bit relevant - Yes, Eva does relate this scene with the moment she realised she had feelings for Newt, also thanks to a semi-dressed state. But here, though she makes the connection and reacts to it emotionally/physically, she can fairly easily put that aside to focus on the situation, which I feel is important. Despite attraction on both sides (there's hints of it from Newt before this), both of them are level headed people and will put more 'important' things first. Which is just one reason certain conversations haven't happened.
> 
> 3\. A bit of a downer end, but necessary, I think. Ben's scene in the movie is fairly striking, and I didn't want to detract from that, whilst at the same time focusing less on him and more on Eva's response. She knew Ben better than Justin, so that makes it worse. She also sees a lot of it playing out the same way, which makes it worse. She recognises how it can look to a newbie; the horror of it, and that makes it worse. And she doesn't want to burden anyone with her grief, prefering to handle it alone, which does make it worse. The only thing she improves at is dealing with the aftermath; it takes the first time, and the insomnia to recognise that she doesn't have to repeat history, even if things around her do. So she joins the others to mourn. This is a weird concept to try explaining, but I hope most of it came across.
> 
> 4\. Eva does get a proper conversation and meeting with Thomas next; no worries :)
> 
> 5\. I didn't make up the bit about snails. That's true.
> 
> 6\. Just out of curiosity, how many of you guys read my extra info/titbits?
> 
> Chapter 22 - Teaser
> 
> My mind snaps awake in the next moment.
> 
> "You're going in," I say.
> 
> -To be posted at the weekend-


	22. The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is waiting and contemplating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Just to make it clear, as I've been prompted about updates: I try to make them twice a week, evenly spaced. Lately it's Wednesday and Sunday, but this can change depending on other commitments. This at least gives you an idea of when to expect new chapters.
> 
> Enjoy!

As it happens, I'm awake before the sun is the morning after Ben. I had trouble finding sleep, despite my exhaustion, but I'm just thankful I was able to.

I lay quietly for a moment, letting the new day seep into my skin as though it will help.

I can hear both Newt and Alby muttering between themselves through the wooden partition. There's light outside, but it's that washed out blue kind of light that comes before the sun is actually in the sky.

I swing myself out of my hammock and tiptoe barefoot in my oversized sleep shirt to the doorway.

"What's going on?" I ask. My voice is full of sleep and I realise belatedly that my hair is also a tousled mess around my shoulders.

Newt and Alby both look over at me.

It takes me a second to realise that Alby's wearing a leather harness.

My mind snaps awake in the next moment.

"You're going in," I say.

Alby nods. "Minho knows where he and Ben got split up. He's going to take me there, and we're going to see what we can find, if anything."

I can see from the conflicted look on Newt's face that he thinks it's a good idea, but he's not all that happy about the execution.

His two best friends, back in the Maze, right after it's claimed another of our own.

Yeah, I can see that.

"Be careful," I say.

Alby nods. Newt claps him on the shoulder.

"You should go back to bed, Eva," Alby says. "Breakfast isn't for a while."

But my mind goes to the bow in the sack beneath my hammock, and the flint knapped arrowheads, yet to be attached to the shafts.

"I'm good," I tell him instead. "I think I'll go for a walk."

My eyes catch Newt's, and I think I see understanding pass through them.

"Let's go," Newt says to Alby, his voice heavy. Then back to me, "I'll see you later."

They both leave, quiet muttering resumed, and I rush back to my section of the hut.

I throw off my sleep clothes and pull on my jeans, camisole and sweater. I step into my boots, lace them up and snatch up the bow and arrows.

I'm alone in the Deadheads at this time of the morning.

I sit at the base of a tree and use my knife to cut notches into the spiked heads of the arrows. Then, one by one, I set the flint arrowheads into the notches and use thin strips of leather to seat them in tightly. Eric knapped little grooves into the sides so I can twist the leather laces around them and by the time I tie them off with one of the knots he once showed me, I have seven arrows, each with a firmly attached flint head. One is bluish, one pale pink, one with a green and lilac marbling. The rest are pale grey.

I'm glad that the cut on my hand doesn't really react with more than a faint tingle as I grip the bow and fire an arrow. I've not tried to use it since the injury.

I feel a strange kind of elation when the arrow spears into a tree, the flint head holding fast in a way the wooden tip wouldn't.

I'm reminded that I need to get something to cover my arm, though – it stings again with the snap of elastic. I'll have to ask Minho about that, when he makes it back – the runners have access to different kinds of arm guards.

_If he makes it back._

I push the thought away as I gather my things.

They _have_ to make it back.

…

It's after lunch that day when I officially meet Thomas.

Newt's getting worried, though holding it together well for now.

There's no sign of Alby or Minho and they should have been back by noon. It wasn't far, Minho said, and I've run into the Middle Ring with him in just a couple of hours.

The rain doesn't help.

It starts mid morning, and only gets heavier with the passing minutes until all the Gladers are huddled in their huts or the Mess Hall, with nothing good enough to keep their minds occupied away from the Doors.

I sit in one of the huts, watching the rain sheet down just beyond the overhang and feeling the damp seep into my clothes. My fingers stay busy, twisting and tying off leather straps to repair handles on a pile of tools, but my attention is on the others.

I see Thomas walk to Newt. Their exchange is brief and tense. And then Thomas strides in my direction, though I don't think he's aiming for me. His expression is a mix of frustrated and determined. If Newt won't talk to him, he'll find answers somewhere else.

I know what its like to search for answers.

Everyone here does.

"Hey," I call him softly, as he steps within easy hearing range. "Sit."

I jab the knife in my hand to a stool nearby.

Thomas looks towards the Doors again, throws a glance back at Newt, and then drops onto the stool.

Its only when he sits down, he seems to let go of his agitation for the moment – like it's a choice he's made.

"So, you're Eva, right?" He's a little cautious as he asks.

I nod.

"How long you been here?"

"Five months, now," I say. I yank fiercely at a half hitch knot in the leather trace, making sure its tight over the handle of the trowel, and then use the knife to cut away the excess.

"Chuck said you wouldn't trade your friends here for your memories."

He says it like he's asking a question and yes, I did say that, and I meant it, too, but I suddenly feel like Thomas is challenging it.

"I wouldn't," I say, staring straight at him. "I don't know who I was before, but there's things that tell me I might not like what I find."

"Like what?" He asks. He looks lost.

"Like the fact I've had a liking for knives of all kinds since the day I arrived. Like the fact that I could use a syringe gun without ever seeing one before. That I like making things, know exactly how to break hinges, or put fletching on an arrow – and that I know the word fletching," I add, realising suddenly it's the first time I've said it. It's the word for the goose feathers on the arrows.

Thomas looks at me in silence for a drawn out moment before he says, "Weapons."

I frown. "What?"

"Knives, guns and arrows – they're weapons. You think you had some weapons training?"

I feel my eyes widen.

This never occurred to me, but I realise it probably should have. Someone might have taught me to hold and use weapons. Not just one, but many. Probably more than I've so far discovered.

Not that it changes my point.

"My point still stands, though," I tell him. "If someone taught me to use guns and knives, I don't think I want to know. Do you remember anything, other than your name?"

Thomas seems lost in thought, but just when I'm about to continue, he says, like he's still trapped in a memory, "Wicked is good. Everything is going to change."

I go still.

_Wicked is good._

I remember those words.

Just once. So long ago. The night I remembered my name, I had the nightmare and the voice in it…

"Wicked is good?" I ask, and my voice comes out strangely.

Thomas nods. "Someone says it, over and over, in my head. But I can't…"

_He can't remember._

"How do you know those things about yourself?" he asks suddenly. "Do you get, like, flashbacks?"

I shake my head. "I've never had a flashback. I had one nightmare but it didn't tell me anything. Everything I know, I worked out for myself." I remember a conversation I had with Newt, so long ago and I sigh as my thumb runs along the side of the knife in my hand. "I said, a long time ago, that these people have taken our memories, but you can't really erase who someone _is_. The boys here, they don't remember anything, same as you, but they've learned things about themselves without those memories. You will, too."

Thomas looks doubtful.

"What do they mean?" he asks instead. "Everything's going to change."

"It's already started," I say. My eyes drop back to the next tool in my lap; a small, hand-held spade. I hate the irony. "No one's been stung during the day before."

"And it started with me." He states it. I get the feeling he's condemning himself. "He said this was my fault."

I look up. Thomas' expression has moved into something guilty and weighted.

"Ben," he clarifies. His voice is quiet. The other boys bustle around us, getting on with small chores in between watching the Doors. I can see Newt, near the entrance standing vigil, but somehow I can tell he keeps looking my way. "Ben said that he saw me and that it's all my fault."

I know from Justin, and from what Newt said about Stephen that the sting brings back fragments of memory and truth, all tied up in the madness. But I don't know if that's something it's wise to tell Thomas.

"It does that," I say, trying to pick my words carefully. I don't want to add to this feeling of guilt he's taken on, but I won't lie to him either. "The sting; whatever's in it, it can take pieces of your memory and give them back, but they're not complete, and with the poison, I don't think they make sense."

Thomas' eyes spark as he looks up at me. There's a kind of recognition there.

"You knew someone," he murmurs. "Someone who got stung?"

I feel the long gone scratches on my wrist tingle and don't reply. But I don't need to. Thomas nods.

"What happens if they don't make it?"

We move away from the topic and I take in a breath. I can feel Newt looking our way again.

There's something frustrated in his voice, though it's hidden behind the concern, and I glance up. It's the same frustration that was in his expression as he walked away from Newt.

I know what their tense conversation was about.

"What did Newt say?"

Thomas looks like he wants to scowl, but it comes out as a quiet huff.

"That they're going to make it."

I half smile. It's not really funny, but it's predictable.

"Alby and Minho are Newt's oldest friends," I say. "And if Alby isn't around, Newt takes command. He's more worried than he can let on. Them not getting back isn't an option for him."

Thomas rubs at the bandage on his wrist. "But you have to have thought about it, right?"

I give him a serious look and say, very quietly. "If they don't make it back, they're dead or worse. And Minho is too good to get lost, so they're only this late because that's already happened. That's what they're thinking."

Thomas' expression drops.

I guess he wasn't expecting a blunt answer.

But all he's been looking for are answers, so I figure he can start taking them.

"Newt won't be the same," and even just whispering this aloud makes something in my chest break because I'm facing, for the first time, that _he really won't_. "He'll have to lead. We'll have lost a Runner - the best one - and we'll still be trapped."

I stand up. Nervous energy is snapping through my veins.

"So," I say, as gently as I can. "Maybe you can understand why Newt can't talk about it."

Thomas nods. I gently squeeze his shoulder as I pass him.

The other Runners are out themselves, as normal. There's no one for me to go into the Maze with, and even if there was, I don't know my way alone. And even if I knew my way, I don't know where Minho had been headed. I'd never make it back by sundown. Losing two is going to be hard enough, but losing three would be worse. Newt would never forgive me if I tried to go after them.

It hurts to know everything is going to change all over again, and all I can do is watch.

…

The downpour keeps us all in the huts as the afternoon drags on, slower with each passing minute.

The field seems just as grey as the sky, and the expressions on everyone's faces even bleaker.

Newt doesn't talk much, and no one really pushes him to. Frypan looks grave stirring something in a bowl without even looking at it in the Kitchen doorway. Gally scowls out of the Mess hall, but behind the folded arms, he emanates something more troubled.

I finish repairing the tools and find myself sitting with Eric, Clint, Henry and Tim. We try to play a betting game to pass the time, but it's clear no one's mind is in it.

Everyone thinks the worst, but no one wants to say it.

It's a long afternoon.

…

The shucking idiot is in the Maze.

I think he's broken the record for shortest lasting Greenie.

The rain let up as the sun went down – not that it was easy to tell with the grey clouds forming a solid blanket overhead.

And Minho appeared, but he was out of time, dragging Alby's dead weight with him.

And Thomas threw himself away from everyone gathered at the threshold. He forced his way through the rapidly narrowing space until the Doors pressed together with their usual noise and everyone in the Glade were left to stare at the space where he'd been.

_No one survives a night in the Maze._

Not a rule we live by, but a truth those lives are built around.

Supper is served up in the Mess hall, but a bunch of us never leave the Doors. Frypan and Stan bring us ration packs – the ones we don't need to use up so much since Frypan assembled his team of the culinary gifted.

I'm more scared than I care to admit at the fragmented look that's taken hold of Newt.

We pick at the tasteless ration packs, and conversation is reduced to short exchanges that trail off into the pressing silence. Words, food and even the company in the shadow of the Wall are not enough to push back the crushing weight on everyone's shoulders.

Alby is gone; the boy who came here first, three years ago, and gave everyone someone to look up to.

Minho is gone; the boy who led others out into the Maze with his drive and determination alone.

And Thomas. A boy who has been in the Glade for barely three days, already questioning the rules and the system.

We sit up all through the night.

We fall asleep periodically and in short bursts, the grinding noises of change and the hisses of danger starting us from sleep. Zart's eyes are wide in the gloom; Jeff rocks slowly in the grass; Winston shifts restlessly in his sleep, head pillowed on his arm.

Newt barely moves the entire night. There's too much stirring behind his eyes to allow him to sleep at all.

I drift off at one point, only to startle awake not long after with what sounds like a scream.

Chuck hasn't left us. In just two days, he's become a bit of a shadow to Thomas – someone newer to this than he is, older, and who seems to actually want to talk and listen to him where everyone else is often too busy during the day. Chuck whittles on a piece of wood until he shakes too much to continue. His eyes fill with tears that he doesn't cry and he stays nearly as silent as Newt.

We're all wrung out when it's finally light enough the following morning for the Doors to groan apart.

And yet, there's that last, desperate surge of hope in my chest as Chuck calls us all to the widening gap.

The Maze is a shadow beyond. The tunnel into it is empty.

No bodies – but no one breathing either.

I watch Chuck's face fall. I see Jeff, Zart and Winston's shoulders sink.

"I told you, Chuck," Newt says. His voice is solid – he exhausted all his fears and grief during the night. Now he has to be a leader. "No coming back."

Chuck looks back at him, and I can see the sympathy in Newt's expression. His eyes linger on the younger boy as everyone slowly turns away.

Somehow, we have to get on with our lives.

"No way."

Zart's stopped, and his voice is numb disbelief.

I stop and look around. I feel the slow procession falter behind me.

There's a shape forming from the darkness at the end of the tunnel; something hobbling and unsteady.

"Yeah!" Chuck cheers, his cheeks flushing with some kind of second-hand triumph.

Thomas and Minho stagger towards the Doors. Both are exhausted, scratched and grimy, and struggling beneath the weight of a still unconscious Alby.

But they're _alive_.

And that puts another crack through everything we've been taught to believe.

_No one survives a night in the Maze._

Until now.

…

Thomas killed a Griever, so, naturally, Gally's not happy.

Not that he usually is, but as he calls everyone for a mass meeting in the Council Hall, he looks very much not happy.

There's a whole lot of posturing as he rallies the Gladers with just his fierce belief in his words, and then Newt cuts across him.

Newt has looked worlds better since Thomas and Minho carried Alby back through the Doors. Alby is out of action; he sort of regained consciousness and has been kept down with strong bindings and sedative mixes as the Changing takes hold, but he's alive. Having two of his oldest friends still breathing – even if one is in a dire condition – has meant Newt can actually take the position he's been thrust into with a lot more focus than he might have.

"Minho," he says, arms crossing across his body as he leans back on the rail. "You were there with him, what do you think?"

Minho takes his time replying, and when he does, everyone goes quiet to listen. "I think…in all the time we've been here… no one's _ever_ killed a Griever before.

"When I turned tail and ran, this dumb Shank stayed behind to help Alby. I don't know if he's brave or stupid…But whatever it is, we need more of it."

I snort internally. I can't help it.

Minho pauses for a beat, looks steadily at Newt and says – with total conviction, "I say we make him a Runner."

Instant uproar.

_Oh heck._

Thomas' head snaps up, eyes stunned as he looks at Minho. There's something like gravity in them. He started trying to run into the Maze on his first day; this is what he wants. That's easy to see.

And as Newt said to me a long time ago; we sort of need anyone prepared to do it.

The boys all around me break into whispers and chatter, some disbelieving, some supportive. Chuck tries and fails to begin a chant. Winston, stood one side of Minho just raises his eyebrows. Zart does one of his full-face beaming smiles and doesn't say a word.

Newt lifts himself off of the rail, a smile breaking across his face that's a touch incredulous, though also a little approving.

"A Runner? What?" Frypan asks. "Minho, let's not jump the gun here, alright?"

And then Gally strides forward, hand held up in the air for silence, which falls with his first words. "Look, if you wanna throw the newbie a parade that's fine. Go ahead." He lets this sink in, expression still tight. "But if there's one thing that I know about the Maze, it's that you do not-"

And then even Gally stops talking. A loud cranking noise fills in where his voice used to be.

A very familiar alarm resonates through the Glade, seeping through the walls and into the Council Hall.

The Box Alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Eva and Thomas do get to have a face-to-face conversation here, but its not really about getting to know each other in the typical sense. Thomas, from what we see of him in canon, is very focused on the puzzle of the Maze, escaping and (maybe to a lesser extent) discovering who he is. His friendship with Minho comes about almost unintentionally, simply as a result of their night in the Maze, and the ones with Newt, Chuck and Alby follow a little of that pattern. Teresa is the only one he seems to deliberately approach, trying to connect to, and that's because she knew his name. This is the way I interpreted it; its not fact. But his first meeting with Eva is based on this. He's not really looking to make friends; he's looking for answers. Newt won't give them, but Eva does, and that is the root of the conversation, rather than friendship. Maybe that comes across, but this is the reasoning behind why it may feel a little less personal. It's meant that way.
> 
> 2\. There is a little bit of a time skip. I imagine Eva was gathered at the Doors with the others, but I'm not intending to rehash all the scenes you already know. That moment Thomas decides to run in is very well known, and its more action than thought, so I'd just be describing what you see. Other times, I feel there's more benefit in including movie scenes - the Meeting at the end here, for instance. There's a lot going on with a lot of people and a lot of conflicting opinions and that's more fun to play with.
> 
> 3\. A little unrelated, but I'll also just point out that actually, Eva spoke directly to Thomas sooner than she ever spoke to Rob. He'd been in the Glade nearly a week before she really talked to him at supper. Thomas is on his third day when this conversation happens. The difference is just to do with the pace of the story.
> 
> Chapter 23 - Teaser
> 
> "I think he was frustrated that you couldn't give him a straight answer," I say, shrugging. "So I gave him one."
> 
> -To be posted next week-


	23. Arrivals and Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we don't know what to make of things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So for those of you wanting confirmation on what certain people remember and what they don't...its very close. Sadly not here just yet due to the way I had to section this. But very close!
> 
> NOTE: I'm not sure when exactly at the weekend the next one will be up. I'm away for some of it house hunting, but it will be up by Monday at least!

The thin branch walls may keep out the rain, but they do nothing against the blaring noise that tells everyone something isn't right.

That sound fills my head and it's only associated with one thing.

Gally and Newt share a look; both of them looking grim, and then Newt moves first, straight up the steps and outside. Gally is on his tail, and then Frypan.

No one can be bothered to keep Thomas on the step at the back for his pseudo trial now. He stands and slowly moves forwards.

I hurry up the steps with Dan and get caught in the door by Thomas, Minho and Chuck, who've all stopped.

"Okay wait, wait, I know that sound," Thomas says, eyes fixed ahead, trying to connect dots.

"The box, it's coming back up," Chuck replies, perplexed.

Minho's expression fixes. "It shouldn't be."

_You don't say._

He nudges between the pair of them, running ahead.

Thomas and Chuck don't take long to follow, but by that time I've slipped around them and joined the crowd of boys. We all race across the field, but Newt and Gally have already opened the box and Newt's inside.

"Newt, what do you see?" Frypan asks, as we all gather at the edge, shuffling to be able to peer down.

Newt sounds utterly mystified as he reports back, "It's a girl."

I feel more than a couple of the boys shoot me looks before their attention focuses. With this announcement, I find it's easier for me to nudge my way between them to the edge. Thomas manoeuvres his way to the front just around the other side.

The girl is lying on her side, half curled up at Newt's feet in the otherwise empty cage. She's in a huge, roughly woven shirt, jeans that are back-folded over her calves and old sneakers. Her skin is pale, features striking and her night-black hair pools in a halo of tangles around her head and shoulders.

She isn't moving.

"I think she's dead," Newt says in muted shock, uncertain.

The murmurs start up again.

"Dead?" Dan whispers just to my right. He sounds more confused than anything else.

_Why send a dead girl?_

"What's in her hand?" Gally asks, nodding once to one of the girl's arms.

I notice for the first time that something is crumpled in her slack grip.

Newt crouches and reaches across to carefully lift a slip of paper away from her. He unfurls it.

"She's the last one…Ever," he looks up at the ring of Gladers peering in. His expression creases. "What the hell does that mean?"

And the girl gasps awake.

She jerks on the cage floor, the breath tearing through her.

Newt launches backward in shock. Frypan throws out his arms on both sides – I'm not sure whether it's to balance himself, or to force back Henry and Zart. Most of the boys recoil away, with only Gally staying staunchly where he is, a flicker of shock showing only in his raised eyebrows.

"Thomas," she gasps. She heaves in a few more frantic breaths – bright blue eyes unfocused, before she sinks back into unconsciousness.

Well.

_That's not normal._

Faces all around turn to Thomas. He looks clueless as ever.

I look down.

Newt is standing up, the paper curled loosely in his hand. He looks around, and I think he's trying to spot Minho or one of the Med-Jacks, but he stops when his eyes land on me.

There's a question in them, but this time, I'm not sure what that is.

_What do you think? What do we do with her? Is she going to run away and climb a tree? Is she okay? Are you okay?_

I can only look back at him a little helplessly and offer a small shrug.

"Still think I'm overreacting?" Gally asks, scowling in Thomas' direction.

Thomas looks just as stunned as everyone else.

_But she said his name._

No one has ever come up in the box remembering anything, but this girl knew someone else in the Glade.

_Everything's going to change._

_No shit._

"Alright," Newt says to dispel Gally's quickly rising agitation and hostility. "Let's get some help here. We'll get her into the Infirmary."

Newt leans down again, gently shaking the girl's shoulder, and when she doesn't respond in the slightest, he cautiously scoops her up.

Jeff, Minho and Frypan all lean down to help lift her out of Newt's arms. One of the Builders steps forward to lift her up in the same bridal carry before starting a trek for the Medi Tent, Clint hurrying along in his wake.

Newt lifts himself out of the Box.

"Okay, everyone back to your jobs for now. Just do what you can; we'll keep you posted."

And it's not the most rousing speech, but the morning so far has rattled everyone and they all obey; turning for their corners of the Glade, talking between themselves.

I catch Jeff's eye, and move around to him. We both fall into step as we jog back towards Homestead.

I leave Jeff and Clint to check over the girl and stop in with Alby as soon as we duck into the Medi Tent.

The veins are starting to rise under his skin; rushing through with the black poison from his sting. The sedation berry mixes are keeping him down, but they're not strong enough to bring him peace. He quakes on the pallet, fraught with tension, with tight bonds holding him in place. A cold sweat has risen on him.

My best guess is that Justin and Ben both went through these tremors before the madness took hold. That, or the sedative paste is suppressing the madness, and this is the result.

Either way you look at it, it doesn't seem too good.

Leader or not – we can't keep him tied up in here forever.

I stay sat with him, using a damp cloth to try bringing him some relief; but mostly just keeping myself occupied and on hand, should Jeff or Clint need it.

But the girl doesn't stir.

Lunch time crawls past and there's still no change, until finally, just when Clint returns from fetching us some food from the Kitchen, Newt, Minho and Thomas duck into the hut.

I just keep one ear on the exchange.

I'm glad Newt says what I'm thinking – that somehow this girl knew a name that wasn't her own…and that's not normal here.

And yet, Thomas says he has no recollection of her.

Everything runs smoothly for months, and then with the appearance of one boy, the pattern starts to break apart. I wouldn't mind so much – we've all wanted to escape – but right now, I don't know if these changes will kill us or set us free.

The note is a problem, too.

We only have female goats, but we could breed rabbits and chickens for meat in the long run. And if we were careful to collect pips and seeds from what we ate from the Gardens, we could keep replanting, too…but it's not the best outlook.

We relied on the Box for more than just food.

What about the medical supplies, tools, kitchen utensils, fresh clothes, bedding and footwear?

"He's right, Newt," Jeff says quietly. "If the Box isn't coming back up, how long do you think we can last?"

"No one's said that," Newt says, though I imagine I can feel uncertainty in his voice. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. We just…" his tone slides into something more solid as he fixes on a plan, "We just wait until she wakes up and see what she knows. Somebody's got to have some answers around here."

It's as good a plan as any, I guess. But in the meantime, there's still the question of Alby, Thomas, and the Box to worry about.

I shuffle on the stool I've been occupying, and through a sliver of the doorway, I can see Thomas lift his head.

He murmurs something and the next second he's turned around and made a beeline for the door.

"Where are you going?" Newt calls after his retreating back, arms folded.

"Back into the Maze." Thomas doesn't stop or look around.

I feel my heart beat hard once.

_Not again._

Newt and Minho share the quickest of looks. It takes less than a second for the wordless conversation, in which Minho seems to say 'I've got it'.

He rushes from the hut.

There's a silent beat, before Newt says, softer, "Keep an eye on her, Guys. Just do the best you can. Have either of you seen Eva?"

"Here," I pipe up, not moving from my stool. I'm occupying myself with pressing yet another damp cloth to Alby's forehead.

Newt appears in the doorway.

"How's it going?" I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck, and for a second he looks like the teenager he is – that we all are. "We'll see," he says. "Doug and Dimitri both quit. Neither of them left this morning, not after what happened with Ben and Alby. Gally's telling anyone who'll listen that Thomas is bad news. Everyone's worried, and they should be, but it's still…"

"You're doing better than you think," I say.

I haven't left the hut since the girl was brought in, but I know this anyway. It seems like Newt's spent the last few hours doing rounds to check on everyone, just as Alby usually would.

I tilt my head at him, though; mind running back over the update. There's something not altogether harmonious when Newt mentioned Gally. "Gally still thinks Thomas is a problem," I say. "But you disagree?"

Newt hesitates, arms crossing over his chest again as he leans against the partition wall.

"Like you said," he starts. "He's different. He's motivated and kind of stupidly self-sacrificing. I don't really know what's going on but after last night…I'm good with him."

I smile lightly.

Thomas somehow became a wild card factor that meant Newt's two best friends made it out of a whole night in the Maze. I figured Newt would be willing to let a few things slide, but the acceptance seems more than grudging.

Despite the trouble and rule breaking and general craziness, I don't think it would take much for them to become fast friends.

"And he doesn't know who he is," Newt continues. "Just like the bloody rest of us. So he may as well be one of us anyway."

I nod. I remove the cloth from Alby's head and drop it back in the bucket of water beside the stool.

"I saw him talking to you yesterday," Newt says, into the comfortable silence.

He won't ask what it's about, but this is his way of gauging a reaction.

But I don't really have a reason to keep it from him.

"I think he was frustrated that you couldn't give him a straight answer," I say, shrugging. "So I gave him one."

I can see by the shadow that passes across Newt's expression that he can remember the hollow feeling of waiting yesterday and all through the night. And the hollowing was made worse by not being able to face the truth of it.

I shrug. "That - and he was asking me how I knew things about myself without my memories. He…he suggested that someone might have taught me to use weapons before I came here. Guns, knives – bows."

Newt grabs the subject, frowning as he concentrates on it. "You think he's onto something?"

I slowly slide off the stool and move around Alby's pallet.

"With me – I don't know. It might explain a few things. But in general…yeah. I think he wants out of here, like we all do, and with everything that's started going wrong…I can't help thinking he was put here to make that happen."

Newt looks at me for a long, silent moment. Then he nods once. "Crossed my mind, too." He takes in a breath and stands up straight. "I've had to call another Keeper meeting," he says. "We need to work out some things."

His eyes slide over to Alby, going even darker with conflict.

"If he was anyone else, he'd be banished," I whisper.

It's not an accusation. It's just a statement of fact. Newt swallows and nods.

"And Thomas," he says. He pulls his eyes away and rubs his forehead. "He wants to be a Runner."

So I'm not the only person who saw that reaction when Minho spoke up for him. And something about the way he says it tells me that Newt thinks it's a good idea.

"I know," I say.

Newt's eyes fix on me.

"Would you let him?" he asks. His tone is curious but I know better than to think I could really sway him if he's made up his mind.

I pull in a deep breath. "Yes." But I feel I should explain, so I continue, "He wants to do it, he's fast, and he killed a Griever. Plus, if he's going to go running into the Maze as its closing, how do you think you'd keep him out when it's open?"

A wry smile pulls at Newt's mouth, and I'm a little relieved to see he can still be amused.

"But he broke a fundamental rule; he went in. The system only works because of that and if that's allowed to slide…You don't want any of the younger boys to start thinking its cool and following on."

We definitely didn't want that.

But truths are truths.

"If Dimitri and Doug won't go, and Minho doesn't have a partner, someone needs to. I just hope that he's less reckless during the day." I shake my head. "The last thing we need is another grave in the Deadheads."

…

Thomas is a Runner.

That's the news that's all over the Glade just minutes after the Council Meeting closes up.

A bunch of the boys were hanging around outside while it was going on, so they were the first ones to see Gally go storming out, Frypan after him, trying to talk him down. After that, everyone made their assumptions, but most of them were proved right when Minho and Newt stood outside the tunnel entrance to announce it.

Thomas is a Runner.

After he spends a night in the Pit.

He _did_ break the rules.

…

"Go," Clint says to me, just moments after the three of us have returned to the Medi Tent. "You've been sat in here all day; go for a walk or something."

"And her?" I ask, nodding to the still unconscious girl on one of the pallets. She's not so much as twitched since she was placed there.

Jeff shakes his head. "We'll be fine. We'll watch her. Go on."

So, giving the pair of them a fleeting hug each, I pick up my satchel, swing it over my head and duck out of the hut.

Standing in the warm air as the afternoon drags on, I wonder what exactly I should do. I should probably head up to the Bloodhouse and see if any of the animals want checking over, but as I didn't really break for lunch, I find myself walking to my shared hammock hut instead.

The Hessian sack under my suspended bed completely covers the few items I've collected for myself over the months. I pull out of it the birch bow and flint-tipped arrows. I use the elastic band over my sleeve to hold the fabric down over my forearm – I still need to work on some kind of protection against the bowstring, but this will have to do for now.

Adrenaline courses through my blood as I peek outside.

This is the first time I've taken it outside of the hut during the actual day – rather than very early or very late.

Just a quick run through the woods.

I swing the bow over my back, arrows sticking out of my satchel and run through the trees.

I know the Deadheads very well by now.

I stop between some trees in an area near to the far Wall where I know people almost never go. The only things to be found here are the kinds of berry shrubs that Clint uses for mixing anaesthetic pastes, but neither he nor Jeff will be leaving the Medi Tent for now.

I knock an arrow and tiptoe my way through the entwined roots, finding myself things to target. The arrows fly, one after another, flashing through the air and I follow in their wake, collecting them up when the last one is loosed. Some miss their mark; I'm still learning to wield the bow, to allow for its weaknesses and inaccuracies, but more are landing where I aim each time I try.

I can't have been out too long when I'm distracted by the low murmur of two voices slice through the serene rustling of leaves above me.

I go still, letting the bowstring gently settle back and leaving the arrow in place where I've knocked it again.

I know it's not danger, but I'm curious anyway.

I move around the trees, keeping behind them, but as I get closer, I can see that neither of the two boys is likely to spot me.

Minho leads the way with a single minded focus. He picks his way through the earth and moss without looking where he steps – he doesn't need to. Thomas follows him, getting caught on shrubs, creepers and roots here and there.

_Runner's Lodge._

That's the only place I can think of that they might be headed.

I think it's sometimes called the Map Room, and the idea is that most of the boys don't know about it, but almost everyone does. They know it's for Runners, though, and they know better than to enter.

It's a circular hut with a low, splayed roof and tilted walls that's tucked deep into the back of the woods not far from the Wall. I watch the pair of them pick their way past me and off down an overgrown path towards where I know it is.

I pull the arrow from the bow and toss it back in my satchel, the bow going back over my shoulder. It snatches on my loose hair and I have to pull it out to the side.

I really need to work on tying it back somehow, if I'm going to need to use this weapon soon.

But I've procrastinated enough – though I choose to think of it as practicing and following orders; Newt did tell me to work on it. It's time to get back to work.

I jog back through the wood; drop the bow and arrows back beneath my hammock and use the elastic on my wrist to pull my hair back into a ponytail. I've taken to doing that in the last couple of weeks when going up to the Bloodhouse – its hot enough as it is and keeping my hair off my neck helps.

Dan milked the goats earlier, and collected the eggs, so I get started on the other chores – throwing out food, refilling water troughs and raking up the droppings.

I'm just shutting the door of the duck pen – we've only got four of them left – when there's a shout from all the way over at Homestead.

Frankie leans around the back entrance of the Butchery, frowning.

"What was that?"

I shake my head, standing as tall as I can on my toes to try to see anything.

Noise travels in the Glade, but it's not always clear who makes the noise, and you can't see Homestead clearly from the Bloodhouse.

And then a streak of blue runs out into the field like there's a nightmare on its heels. It falters halfway out, which is a familiar response when you first see the Walls, and then changes course for the Lookout Tree.

It's at this point that I realise the streak is a person.

More than that, it's the girl who's been unconscious half the day.

"Tell the others," I call to Frankie, already setting down the rake and running. "The girl's awake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Something that's starting to come into play here is Newt's dynamic with Thomas. I really loved that in the film. There's more focus on the friendship with Minho, but its still clear that Newt develops a steadfast faith in him. I personally thought that kind of started with Thomas braving the Maze at night, just because the other option was doing nothing, and had he not - Newt would have lost Alby and Minho in a single blow. But Newt is practical, and he doesn't just trust blindly, which is why, although that event helped him start forming opinions, its not until a little later that he seems to really park himself on Thomas' 'side' (though I use that term loosely). Its a little tricky; we're not in Newt's head, so we have to rely on how well Eva knows him and perceives that relationship. But I'm also conscious that I don't want to make light of either relationship. Newt's bond with Thomas is important, but so is the one he has with Eva, and developing one doesn't take from the other. Hopefully this all starts to tie in as we progress.
> 
> 2\. Mainly regarding the conversation Newt and Eva have. I feel like Alby would have talked things over with Newt when making some decisions, especially in the earlier days. With Alby gone, and Newt taking that role, I just feel like Newt would want to talk some things over, too. While I'm sure he'd talk to Fry, Zart and others, Newt is very close to Eva at this point, and its natural for him to discuss things with her, so I feel like he'd take her thoughts on board sometimes, maybe without realising it. Even that said, I still feel like Newt's verdict in the film was very much 'him' which I guess could mean Eva just thinks the same way (I'm really sad there wasn't a way to include that scene; its one of my favourites).
> 
> 3\. Out of curiosity, do you guys find you can easily imagine where scenes take place and see them happening? Do you envision the movie locations, or have they kind of taken on their own life as you read?
> 
> Chapter 23 - Teaser
> 
> Newt, looking wary, takes one, turning it over between his fingers.
> 
> "W.C.K.D," he mutters. "Again."
> 
> -To be posted at the weekend-


	24. An Eventful Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we enter the unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Things are moving along steadily. Enjoy the chapter, folks!
> 
> Note that some dialogue is borrowed from the movie to keep things accurate. Anything you don't recognise is mine.

I don't hang around to check whether Frankie's heard or listened.

By this time, the newly awake girl is at the top of the Tree and a crowd has gathered beneath it – all the guys who were closer to the Medi Tent when the shout went up.

I slow up as I draw close, and then I stop entirely as a rock goes flying from the top of the tree.

It sails in a deadly curve and thumps the ground, leaving a dent in the grass, worryingly close to Stan's foot. I watch his eyes widen.

"We need cover!" Tim yells out. Another rock flies straight for his head, and he's saved in the knick of time by Henry, who shoves him down.

"Go away!" the girl's voice yells, hidden from view by the platform.

But we keep a lot of rocks up there – mainly for Glader Games after pack up time, but also as a rudimentary alert system, should it ever be needed.

The girl won't be running out anytime soon.

Winston races up next to me, holding a flat square of wood, probably a lid taken from a crate. He's holding it over his head as he looks around.

"She woke up, then?"

"What gave it away?" I ask dryly. Too much has happened today, and I'm too tired to be scared or worried, so now I'm just amused. I remember being terrified; surrounded by all the boys and having no memories of my own, so I can sympathise with her, but I'll do it later.

Eric is hunkered down underneath a huge red metal bucket of some kind and Frypan darts around, apparently having a great time, hiding under a domed metal lid.

"What's going on?"

Newt jogs up to the scene, eyes darting from the crowd of ducking Gladers to the rocks launching from the top of the Tree.

"She woke up," Stan supplies.

Newt opens his mouth to reply, and instead reaches out and pulls me sideways towards him just as a rock slams into the ground where I was stood. It doesn't bounce, and it leaves a decent dent in the grass.

"So many concussions," I whine quietly, watching everyone getting pelted and still wondering if it's healthy to find it hilarious.

Stan snorts.

Newt just gives me a look that is somewhere between 'Really? Must you?' and something that's a lot more significant.

When I realise what I said, I slam my mouth shut, biting into my lower lip.

I can practically see the memory whirling behind his eyes. It sparks there, burning, like kindling set to a fire.

His own concussion. The day it happened.

_He does remember._

I try to brush that aside, even though I can suddenly feel my heart pulse in my chest. It's really not a priority right now. I try to ignore the sensation. Instead I give him an expectant look.

Newt seems to let it go, too, and take my expression as the 'what are you going to do about this?' that I'd intended. He sighs.

I watch another rock hit the ground not far from where I'm now standing and hurriedly move backwards, out of direct range, where I can laugh without being knocked out.

Newt moves forwards, biting back a smile, Winston not far behind, but Stan stays where he is.

"Leave me alone!" The girl shouts.

"Hey!" Gally stands straight up, face fixed in anger and he points upwards. "Throw one more of those things and I'll-"

A rock collides with the top of his head and he buckles.

The timing is perfect.

Tim darts over to cover him with his lid.

"Go away!" she shouts again.

"Hey, what happened?"

Thomas appears between Gally and Frypan. I can see Chuck stood off across the field, laughing himself silly. Minho, Jeff and Clint are slowly making their way over.

"Just duck!" Frypan says behind his lid.

Thomas' weight dithers; he looks like he still wants to question it.

"I don't think she likes us very much," Newt says. He looks like he's on the verge of finding this quite amusing, too. Winston's protecting the both of them from a head injury with his crate lid.

"What do you want from me?" The girl yells.

More rocks fly down.

Zart leaps away from one that nearly breaks his toes and another clangs off of Eric's bucket.

"Hey, look, we just want to talk," Thomas tries.

"I'm warning you!"

A rock very nearly hits Thomas in the head, but he's able to dodge it at the last second.

Frypan crouches low, raising his domed lid and scurries past them calling, "Take cover, ya'll, take cover."

She seems to be shoving handfuls of rocks off the platform now.

And then Thomas seems to get an idea.

"Whoa, hey- hey, wow –It's Thomas," he shouts over the chaos. "It's Thomas!"

The rocks stop in an instant.

Everyone slowly stands straight, lowering their lids.

Of course.

The only name she knows.

The girl peers over the edge. I step forward with the others, all cautiously gathering at the base of the Tree again.

It's just possible to see the wary, doubting blue eyes and the tangled black hair from the distance.

She doesn't say anything. Thomas says he'll come up to her and she withdraws silently, too.

He climbs the ladders, and a hum of voices start at the top, but it's too far to hear the words. And then Gally calls up.

"What's going on up there?"

Thomas looks a little bit hopeless.

"Is she coming down?" Newt asks.

No. She's not coming down. Not right now.

Newt looks a little resigned as he turns everyone away, even though walking away in the first place is a show of some kind of trust.

"Is this what all girls are like?" Fry asks as he backs up. I get the impression he's remembering my unplanned escape that involved his goose.

But gradually, they all obey and head off to finish their chores – even Gally who looks a sight more ticked off than usual.

At least his head's fine.

I'm pretty sure it's harder than any rock around here.

…

I make my way back to the Medi Tent – I saw Clint and Jeff on the field, so Alby's been alone, at least while the girl was drop-bombing everyone.

Clint and Jeff follow me in.

"Whoa," I say when I look at the pair of them. "What happened to you?"

Jeff's left eye is a bit swollen, the skin slowly bruising around a small wound on the side of his brow. Clint has a red mark across his cheekbone that's made his eye a little squinty.

"Her," Clint mutters, gently prodding his face.

"What happened?" I ask more generally.

Jeff moves to the crates and pulls out some of the supplies. He and Clint set about putting some salves on their injuries as they explain.

"One second she was sleeping and Jeff was watching her," Clint starts. "Next, I hear Jeff yell out, and then there's this noise. When I got to her section, she was already up. Threw the white shirt she was wearing at Jeff and pushed him into the table."

"She shoved hard, too," Jeff adds. "Woke up, saw me there, flipped out. She shot across and threw one of the jars at me first. By the time Clint showed up, my head was pounding."

"I tried to calm her down at the door. She just punched me, pushed me to the wall and ran past us. We saw her head out to the field, and by then the others were on her, so I figured we might as well try and get Thomas. I mean…she seemed to recognise him, even if he says he doesn't know her."

"You guys are okay, though?"

They both nod. Their injuries are minor, honestly; just some bruising and a small cut on Jeff, but it's good to know anyway.

"Maybe you should have been here," Clint ponders absently.

I bite my lip.

I'd briefly wondered about that when they said they had it handled earlier, but I'm kind of glad I wasn't around. Not only does it sound like she'd have gone through anyone she had to, but even unconscious, she intimidated me a bit.

Whoever she is, she looks around my age, and is strikingly beautiful. But it's more to do with her being a she. At first, I was intimidated by being in a place just home to boys. But times change, and now I feel unsettled that I'm _not_ the only girl.

Yes, I can appreciate the irony.

"Don't think I'd have done much good," I say instead. "When you're scared, even another female face may not help. I'll never know, but I don't think seeing a girl in the crowd when I got here would have stopped me running."

"That's true," Jeff says.

And just as he finishes speaking, there's a horrible keening noise from around the partition.

"Alby," Clint says.

We all race around to him.

"Get Newt," Clint says to Jeff.

I feel my eyes widen as I look at him.

I've seen two boys stung. Seen two of them shout nonsense and go mad. I've seen two banished.

But I've not watched the poison spread through someone over the course of a day, slowly sinking into their minds and wreaking havoc on their thoughts and memories.

Alby's deteriorating, and fast. The tremors have moved into full body spasms and he seems to be seizing every few minutes, his temperature burning him up from the inside out. The ties are strong, keeping him down, but he's fixed against them, still semi-unconscious and trying to scrape in breaths as the black veins snake across his chocolate-coloured skin.

Clint can't get him to take any more of the berry liquid to bring back the sedation; he's not awake enough, or not sane enough any more.

It takes just a couple of minutes – both of us helplessly trying to calm Alby – before Jeff ducks back through with Newt on his heels.

Newt looks grim, but he's focused as he listens to the report and looks on his oldest friend.

"Doors are closing any minute," Clint says quietly. "What do we do?"

Newt swallows, fingers sweeping across his mouth. "The Council never reached a decision," he says quietly. "How long?"

Clint shakes his head. "Hard to tell. He's probably already gone here-" he taps a finger against his temple "-I mean, we know the poison won't exactly kill him…"

I remember being told about Stephen – the first boy to be stung. Back before they knew what the Changing was, or how it worked, and they had kept him locked up for days, trying to help.

I shudder.

Thomas bursts around the partition.

"Alby," he half gasps. "Newt. You gotta take a look at this. They came up with Teresa. Two of them, I think – well…I mean, it could save him-"

His words come out in a frantic stream, something a little desperate flickering behind his eyes. He holds out two small silver vial cartridges. Electric blue liquid shows through a long bubble window in the sides, looking like a spirit level.

Newt, looking wary, takes one, turning it over between his fingers.

"W.C.K.D," he mutters. "Again."

I frown.

_Again?_

"Well?" Thomas asks.

Its only at this point, Thomas going quiet, that I realise the girl has followed him in. Apparently she's called Teresa.

"We don't even know what this stuff is," Newt says practically. "We don't know who sent it, or why it came up here with you-" he gestures with it lightly in Teresa's direction, and I get the impression he's still unsure about her. "I mean, for all we know, this thing could kill him."

Thomas fidgets, but his expression solidifies in the next heartbeat.

" _He's already dying_. Look at him," he says. His voice isn't raised. It's sincere. "How could this possibly make it any worse?"

Newt's eyes turn to the pallet where Alby still rasps in breaths. The black veins reaching out from the sting on his ribs pulse in the dim lantern light.

I realise belatedly that the sun has finally dropped below the wall. The sky gets dark quickly now. The Doors will already have closed.

"Come on, it's worth a try," Thomas says, softer.

Newt's expression flickers; his thoughts fly along, all weighing the decisions and their potentials before he says, "Alright. Do it."

He holds out the vial. He's not happy, but he's firm about the decision. I think he has more blind faith in Thomas than even he knows.

I hold my breath, even though I can't see a better option. They say 'better the Devil you know than the Devil you don't'…but in this case, we're willing to risk the unknown. In this glade, we don't know of anything worse than the sting.

Thomas takes the cartridge and circles around to Alby's side.

Everyone gathers closer.

His mistake is to hesitate.

Alby looks up for one second, and the moment his eyes land on Thomas, his right arm breaks the ties on it and he fists the boy's shirt, hauling him close with madness and fury etched into his face.

"You shouldn't be here – you shouldn't be here!"

It's the last lucid thing he says. His breath rattles out and he shakes Thomas in his tight grip as we all dart forwards to try to pry them apart. He's strong, and his grip doesn't give until the moment Teresa snatches the vial from Thomas' hand and brings it down on Alby's chest with a single-minded focus.

There's a hissing noise as it injects through the skin.

Alby's spine stiffens and he collapses back on the pallet, breath rushing out as he goes still. His arms fall away from Thomas, who scrambles upright.

Everyone's harsh breathing fills the hut for a moment.

"Well…that worked," Jeff says, sounding doubtful.

Has it worked, or has it made it worse?

How can we tell?

"Okay, from now on, someone stays here and watches him around the clock," Newt says, rattled.

Good call.

Right now, we have no way of telling what effect that cartridge will have. It could have made it worse – maybe an adrenaline rush that could allow him to break free of the restraints? Or speed up the madness? Or even fuse with the poison to make it fatal…

I swallow.

It's been easier to think positive, despite being trapped, in all the last five months than it has been in just the last five days.

Things are changing too fast.

Gally steps around the doorway. His eyes sweep across the room, from Alby's silent body, to Newt's grim expression, and then over to Thomas.

"Hey," he says, drawing everyone's attention. "Sundown, Greenie. Time to go."

_Oh_ , I think. _The Pit. One night of punishment._

Thomas looks around to Newt, but he just looks back at him impassively. Teresa's head turns to Thomas with something like mild panic.

No one moves to intercept as Thomas walks around Clint and out of the hut with Gally at his back.

"We'll watch him for now," Jeff says. "If he does wake up Eva won't be strong enough to hold him down."

I refrain from saying that apparently neither of them were strong enough to keep Teresa down, either. Instead I look over at her.

"Teresa, right?" I ask.

She nods warily.

She only knows Thomas, who's been called away, and it's easy to see she's still a little scared of what's going on.

"I'm Eva. This is Jeff, Clint and Newt." They all give her small nods. "Are you injured at all?"

She shakes her head. "No. Where are you taking Thomas?"

"He went into the Maze today," Newt says before I can reply. "And it's against our rules. He's in the Pit for one night."

I glance up at him, and then back at Teresa. "He'll be fine," I say. I get the idea that inviting her to sit and eat supper with all of us will be a bit too much to ask, though.

"Why don't you stay here with Clint and Jeff?" I suggest, looking over to see if they're okay with this. "I'll bring back some food for you guys. They should be able to explain what's going on."

"Thomas told me," she says, but she doesn't protest the idea.

I stand up off my stool, feeling tired. Newt glances over at me then faces Teresa.

"They should be able to help if you have any questions," he says. "And try to get some rest. I can't speak for the Maze, but with us you're safe." He nods to the two Med-Jacks. "We'll be back with some food."

Then he tilts his head, looking at me. I get the picture, and we both leave the hut.

…

"Can I ask you something?" I ask, when we're in the rapidly gathering darkness outside.

Newt glances over at me. I take that as a yes.

"W.C.K.D. You said 'again', when you read it. What's that about?"

Newt falters, but after a quick scan around, resumes his pace.

"They were the letters stamped on that thing," he says, nodding back towards the Medi Tent. "But we've seen them before."

"On the stuff the Box sends up once a month," I say, filling in the gap. "So, what? The creators who put us here sent up the cure – or whatever that is – too? That's not a hard guess."

"Not just that," Newt says, and his voice is very quiet. "Thomas and Minho went back into the Maze earlier. They took Fry, Zart and Winston with them."

For a second, I'm surprised that the others went – they know the rules – but then the feeling dies in my chest. The rules are breaking apart, and Thomas' presence has started a split through the Glade; those who believe he's okay; that he's going to get us out, and those who think he'll destroy everything and us along with it.

"They made it back just after Gally called the Council Meeting," Newt continues. "We were trying to work out what to do with Alby when they turned up – that's why the subject got dropped. But they found something when they went back to the dead Griever."

"Something not good," I guess. "Going by the look on your face."

He stops. I stop next to him.

The sky is dark, and halfway between the Medi Tent and the Mess Hall in the centre of Homestead, there's no one around. We're two shadows against the tree line.

"It's something mechanical; some kind of technology; like a camera, or a tracker or _something_. But there's a number seven in this little digital display, and it was stamped with those same letters – W.C.K.D."

"Inside a Griever?" I check. My voice sounds hollow to my own ears. Newt nods once.

It's not something I'd ever thought that much about before. We were put here – trapped here. Grievers existed in the Maze. They weren't two concepts that ever overlapped in my mind until now. I guess they kind of should have.

But despite not really considering it, as I feel the horror settle over my heart, there's no shock or surprise to accompany it.

Newt's expression is dark as he watches me put it together.

"Someone made the Grievers," I say, knowing it's true. "To test us. And to keep us here."

…

Nearly two hours later, back in the hut for the night, and my mind is still locked on this new discovery.

What is the purpose of this? Trapping a whole bunch of teenagers in a small space, and unleashing man-made creatures designed to kill them from the inside out?

The puzzles without answers turn over in my head, only adding to the exhaustion I already feel, thanks to the sleepless night before. I'm actually thankful for it when I hear Newt duck into the shared hut and call my name.

Alby never exactly makes a racket, but even so, the hut feels quiet and empty without him.

"Eva?"

"Here," I reply, moving around my partition. "What is it?"

Newt rubs the back of his neck agitatedly as he heads into his section, shrugging out of his harness as he goes.

I frown.

There's a kind of frantic tension in his shoulders and he seems strung out. He's seemed a little withdrawn since we left the Medi Tent after Alby reacted to the cartridge.

"What's wrong?" I ask instead.

He looks up. "Can I just…Okay…Bloody hell- I need…"

And somehow, though I'm not sure how exactly, I think I get it.

He just needs someone to talk to and vent to, but he's gotten so used to being the person everyone looks to for answers and guidance, that I think he's forgotten how to ask.

So I walk past him, feeling his eyes on me, and drop onto the low crate in his room, folding my legs underneath me. "Start talking," I say gently.

His breath rushes out, and for a second he stares into the wall, eyes turbulent as he tries to organise his thoughts. Then he turns to me.

"I just don't know what I'm doing," he says. His voice is tinted with something frenzied and things start pouring out. "Things are changing, going wrong; the whole system is just…Gally's going to lose it, we had to banish Ben – _Ben_ … and Alby…I may have just killed him, I've got no clue what that stuff does. I'm so bloody tired. I hate having to trust WCKD with our lives when it's clear they don't really give a klunk if we survive or not!

"And Thomas! I made him a Runner. How can I do that – how can I send a Greenie out there to do the same thing that I nearly…"

His voice cracks and the side of his fist rams into the support beam of his hammock. His shoulders curl forwards and his breathing is loud in the sudden silence.

"Hey," I say, quietly, when he doesn't continue. "For someone who has no idea, you're doing a damn good job. No one really knows, but you're being smart, and you're doing things for the right reasons, and that's all anyone can expect of you."

He draws away from the wall, unconvinced, but taking deeper breaths.

"Thomas was right," I carry on, not ready to touch on Ben just yet. "Alby was dying anyway; or worse. And yeah, maybe we have to rely WCKD for some things, but we don't trust them with our lives. We trust each other. Alby trusts _you_."

_And so do I._

I want to say that, too, but the last thing I want to do is add to the weight he already shoulders.

"And as for Thomas…" I remember all too clearly that expression on his face the first time he was put on that farce trial. "He wants to run, Newt."

"I know," Newt replies, his voice subdued.

And somehow, I think I get that, too.

Newt knows Minho, knows how strong he is. And he knew Ben and Doug and Justin, too. In fact, barring Minho, who was one of the earliest Runners, all of them were in the Glade for some time before their job role changed.

But Thomas is so new to this world – to everything that it involves – and at the same time, so curious, hopeful and blindly proactive. It only makes sense that Newt will worry more for him.

The more hopeful and optimistic you are, the more crushing the disappointment and fear. And either of those things alone could drive someone to extremes.

"The Maze breaks people," Newt says. His voice is low.

He's talking about himself, that much is blatantly clear.

"Maybe," I say. "But it didn't break you."

He shoots me a look, something strange in his expression. He doesn't believe me.

"You're one of the lucky ones. You are," I insist, when he looks sceptical. "You jumped, and you broke your leg; you got a limp, but you kept your heartbeat. Newt, you kept your _life_.

"You changed your mind. That doesn't make you broken; that makes you strong."

I hear him draw in air, and hear it waver past his lips.

I don't know if anyone's ever told him this, but they should have.

"Thomas wants to run," I say again. "Even if you told him about your leg, it wouldn't change that."

His expression has relaxed a little. I don't know if it's what I said, or just whether being able to let all this out has helped. "How do you know?" he asks, curious.

And I think he already knows what I'll say, but it's something he had to ask.

"Because he's already afraid," I say. "He already knows what he's risking." And I shrug a little. " _I_ knew, but I still went. I didn't do it to spite you or to hurt you-"

"I know that-" Newt says over my words.

"I did it," I continue, as though he hasn't spoken. "Because someone had to. Because Minho needed me to.

"Someone has to go, or none of us ever will."

This is something we both already know, with a bit too much clarity. But saying it is sometimes necessary.

I slide off the crate, happier now with the more relaxed, if exhausted set to Newt's shoulders that I can all too easily sympathise with.

"Try to sleep," I say, softly, approaching him.

The hut feels quieter than ever in the wake of our conversation.

"Will you?" he asks, and though there's a slight darkness to his tone, it comes across as curious rather than caustic.

I have better chances than he does tonight. Ben's loss hit me hard but I can't begin to imagine the weight on Newt while Alby's fate hangs in limbo. It's his best friend.

I shrug lightly again, now standing directly opposite him. I wonder if I'd break apart if I touched him, or if that would hold me together. "I'll try," I say, and my voice comes out quieter than I'd planned. "It's all any of us can really do."

In just the last two days, it seems like a full night's sleep is too much to ask.

Newt gazes at me for a moment. In the shadow of the hut, his eyes are impossibly dark and I can't read everything in them. He swallows, and then he nods.

On impulse, I gently touch his shoulder as I move past him. My voice is a whisper, " _Try_."

"Eva," he calls me back before I reach the doorway, and I'm not prepared for the way my name sounds on his tongue, whispered into the dark. In each of our words, it feels like we both have something else to say, but it's too late and we're too tired and there's too much else already to think about.

It can wait. Newt's voice is a whisper, like mine, "Thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. Teresa's introduction scene should be very familiar. Its unaltered from the film, but mostly there - if added to - because I feel its important to introduce her in the same way here as she is in canon. Obviously the perception of the scene is shifted just slightly. This ties in to Clint and Jeff being a bit beaten up. I'm pretty sure they have those injuries in the film, but it's hard to tell with the lighting. If not, I know the commentary at least talks about it, but the idea was that Teresa had overpowered the two of them in some way to get out.
> 
> 2\. Again, the scene in the hut with Alby, Thomas and Newt is largely the same, though longer than the scene in the film. This is another moment I feel is important, for many characters. Even while crazed, its important for Alby because it concerns his fate (though I find it fascinating to note he gets no real choice in it, and the injection is given without consent. That's another topic). Its important for Thomas because this takes a step forwards in their trust in him. Its important for Newt, because its a decision that he has to make and find peace with, regardless of what happens, and with this, he's choosing to trust Thomas. Its a step in their personal dynamic, too. For Teresa, she gets a glimpse at the familial connection between the boys, and how they handle themselves. Eva, Jeff and Clint are semi removed observers. So its important to see the shift in dynamics.
> 
> 3\. This is the moment where Eva finds out what Thomas and Minho discovered already, and when she makes the connection that Grievers don't just happen to torment them; that they were created for the sole purpose of tormenting them. Its a big difference. And its a revelation for her, for all of them, because they've never seen a Griever and lived to tell, so they've never had a real idea of what they are. So while you and I know them already, the Gladers are still putting together clues right now.
> 
> 4\. And it kind of leads into her conversation with Newt. They both have a lot on their minds but Eva is puzzling it out herself. Newt tries really hard to be strong for everyone else, but given he's under a lot of stress, having just made a decision on Alby's fate, and Thomas' in one day, it makes sense he'd crack and want to talk, so he turns to the person he trusts most next to Alby to be honest and unbiased with him.
> 
> 5\. And finally, yes, Newt does remember. At least...Eva's sure he does, even if he hasn't confirmed it. And she is pretty good at reading him now. But there's a lot on everyone's shoulders, and a conversation like that just has to wait. Sorry...
> 
> Sorry for the lack of a teaser...Don't want to spoil much in the next chapter :)


	25. The Rules Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the conditions change

By the next morning, Alby's gone quite deathly still, but his breathing has evened out and it could be my imagination, but it looks like the veins are less angry than they were last night.

Teresa hasn't really left the Medi Tent. She seems more at ease, and I put that down to the stories of better times – as good as they can get, anyway – that Jeff and Clint were telling her when Newt and I returned with supper the night before.

Clint's catching up on sleep while Jeff stacks rolled up bandages on one of the workbenches. It's strangely quiet, given the flurry of activity the Infirmary has been in the past few days.

We all try to get back to work as normal.

With Teresa helping out a bit in the Medi Tent, I spend much of the day in the very welcome fresh air of the animal pens at the Bloodhouse.

It's easy to see everyone's worried, but Lee and Frankie do their best to keep upbeat anyway.

Thomas and Minho left at first light. I haven't seen either of them today.

Hours pass as the sun arcs over the Glade.

We hear the distant sound of walls in the Maze moving all through the afternoon.

I drop off the usual milk and eggs with Frypan in the Kitchen and stick around a bit to help them line up more jars of Gally's brew – far away from the fire this time; we line them out the back of the Kitchen.

Fry's reasoning is that with all the craziness, everyone's likely to want to get a little bit sloshed on the stuff later.

I can't deny that he has a point.

…

With the chores at the Bloodhouse finished, I leave the Kitchen and head for the Medi Tent again to see how Teresa and Alby are both getting on.

"Clint's picking berries," Teresa tells me when I duck around the doorway. She's using a pestle and mortar to grind up some strange concoction as she sits on a stool near Alby's pallet.

He still hasn't moved.

The pulsing veins have receded to half the size, though they can still be seen, mapping his dark skin.

I choose to believe the changes are good ones.

"How is he?" I ask anyway, despite knowing there's probably not much Teresa can say.

Her eyes slide to him; they're bright blue even in the shadow of the hut. Her expression is reserved, calculating, almost.

"The same," she says after a moment. Her hands grind the pestle as she talks. "The Jeff kid said he thinks there's some good signs, but he doesn't know enough to tell."

"And you?" I feel compelled to ask.

Though the truly guarded look has left her eyes, she doesn't look entirely comfortable in herself, sitting here. I don't think it's the stool.

She glances at me; shrugs. "Okay."

And it feels like a fragment of truth.

I'm not sure what to say to her. I get the feeling that she almost doesn't want to talk, to be around anyone, and at the same time, that she needs the opposite. But who am I to decide for her?

So I nod, deciding to leave her be. "Okay, then," I say quietly. Its sounds better in my mind than anything else I could say.

But she calls me back before I leave the doorway.

"Eva, right?" she asks, like she already knows it's true.

I nod, turning back to her.

She is silent a moment, but not hesitant. "Jeff said you'd been here months."

"I have."

"The only one? Only girl, I mean?"

I nod again.

"And you know why they sent you?"

Her questions are frank; she doesn't dance around them. But this one I'm not sure how to answer.

I don't know; not really. Talking to Newt after Justin gave us both theories, but nothing we can prove while we're stuck here, and nothing we wanted to tell the others in case it started more questions or a panic.

"Not really," I say, aware I've hesitated and she might take that as some kind of omission. "I mean, I can try to guess, and we've always got theories, but without really asking someone…"

Thankfully, Teresa just nods, her expression softening a little.

"Yeah," she says, quietly. Her voice is far more delicate when she isn't questioning me. "I get the feeling I'm only ever going to have questions."

"It gets easier," I reply, though I'm not sure she wanted one. "Well, feeling trapped and feeling this blank space where your last life used to be never really goes away; its always there, but it gets easier to live with. And the guys help; everyone's been there."

"They say that I said Thomas' name – before I even really woke up," Teresa says. It comes out like a confession; something she feels vulnerable in admitting. "But I don't remember. I don't even know him; not really. His name is this…this echo, in my mind, but it doesn't have a real voice, or a face or a memory or anything."

This I don't know how to help with.

It never happened to me. I didn't know anything at all for over a day, and when I did, my name was an imprint in my head; solid and rooted as though it had always been, even when I know it wasn't the day before.

I never had the echo of a name that wasn't mine. If any of the boys have, they've never told me.

"But you trust him anyway?" I ask, uncertain.

Even if she doesn't remember him; she recognises his name, allowed him to approach her, and seemed to gravitate to him afterwards.

Teresa looks like she's unsure how to answer. "Maybe. Yes-" she lets out an aggravated breath, stabbing the pestle in to the mortar with a harsh grating sound. Her eyes drop to it, as though she's just remembered it's there. "I feel like I do."

I can't be sure how to understand this, either, but I nod. "Then go with that. I should give Jeff a hand; are you okay watching Alby?"

Teresa nods, blinking to push away her hassled thoughts. "Fine. I'll shout if there's any change. And hey; would you tell them I'm sorry? For the-" she gestures to her face, and I know instantly that she means the injuries she caused when she woke up.

I nod. "I will," I say. "But they get it. Everyone freaks out a bit when they arrive."

"Did you?" she asks, back to frank questions.

"I nearly impaled him," I say, nodding my head at Alby and carefully leaving out the fact that it was more of a defensive reflex than a deliberate thing.

She smiles; a small one in the corner of her mouth, but I feel like this is enough of a conversation for now.

"Yell if you need something," I call over my shoulder, leaving her with her thoughts.

…

But Jeff has breezed through the daily chores by now. Even though Teresa sticks to Alby's bedside, Jeff tells me, she's not complained once about helping to roll bandages, mix up new pastes or count the supplies.

So when Chuck ducks into the hut, looking mildly guilty, I jump on the small task and steer him to a stool.

"What happened?" I ask lightly.

I can see the graze on his knee when he sits down. It doesn't look bad, thankfully, and it will probably be scabbed over by nightfall, but in the Glade, you don't take chances.

Chuck's cheeks flush.

With everything happening in just the last few days, I haven't even thought about the crush he used to have on me. And yet, this rush of colour to his face feels different; more like shame than bashfulness.

"Chuck?" I press lightly.

"I wasn't concentrating," he mumbles, finally looking up at me. "Just…worrying, about Thomas, and Minho, and I tripped."

I feel the prickle of worry in my chest fade away. There are far worse things he could be ashamed about.

"It's okay," I say. "Tim sent you?"

He nods.

I crouch down and quickly dab at the graze, cleaning the broken skin before deciding it's probably best to just let it air.

"It's very shallow," I tell him. "Don't get it dirty for a little bit, okay?"

He nods again.

"And it's okay to worry about Thomas and Minho," I add, figuring its probably this that Tim sent him for, not medical attention.

Chuck looks up. "It's just…its his first real day, you know? And so much bad stuff has happened – Ben…"

The face flashes through my memory and I feel my heart falter.

_Not going there yet._

"Ben wasn't the first," I say, my voice coming out tight. "but Thomas is smart, and he's fast. He knows what he's risking and Minho knows what he's doing."

Chuck lets out a breath.

"I know," he says, after a moment. "He's just one of the only Gladers who really talks to me, you know? Like he's got time to be my friend. I mean, most of you guys are great, but I know everyone's busy."

"Everyone can use a friend here," I tell him. I'm a little sorry for Chuck that the person he seems to like the most is either too brave for his own good or has a death wish, but this is still true.

It makes me worry for something I can't pinpoint, though. I'm not the only one concerned by Chuck's age, and now there's the fact that he's formed some attachment to Thomas. Its harder to tell with the older boy, but I'd still say it's a two way street based on the time Thomas is willing to spend with him.

WCKD does everything for a reason, and I did wonder if Chuck being so young was on purpose, too.

_Did they intend for him to attach himself to Thomas?_

I'm not ready to deal with that question.

"He'll be back," I continue, pushing my thoughts aside. "Just try to focus a little, okay?"

Chuck nods, though his expression is still preoccupied; one I'm learning to recognise on more than a few faces. It's probably even an expression I wear myself. "Yeah," he agrees vaguely.

He hops from the stool, bends forward to inspect his grazed knee and then scurries back up the hut. "Thanks, Eva."

He's gone before I can reply.

…

By the time the light is slowly starting to wane, a crowd of us have gathered around the Doors. Work has basically packed up for the day, as everyone's wondering the same thing.

The noises, far off into the Maze haven't let up all afternoon. Not until five minutes ago.

_Good or bad?_

But the Doors haven't even started to close – the gust of wind that announces it has yet to come – when Minho and Thomas run into view at the end of the tunnel.

"What the hell's going on out there?" Newt asks as they race up to him.

Murmurs and questions start firing immediately as the group swarms around the two of them, making brisk steps towards Homestead.

"What the hell've you done now, Thomas?" Gally asks, looking more exasperated than truly angry today.

"We've found something. A new passage – we think it could be a way out," Thomas reports. He, Minho and newt walk side by side at the front of the group.

"Really?" Newt asks. There's something like hope in his voice, though he holds it in check.

"It's true," Minho says. "We opened a door to something I've never seen before."

This sounds like big news. But then there's the bombshell.

"We think it must be where the Grievers go during the day."

_Oh._

_Great._

"Wait, wow, wow, wow-" Chuck interrupts, running up behind them. "You're saying you found the Griever's home?...And you want us to go in?"

"Their way in could be our way out, Chuck," Thomas replies.

And yeah, he has a point.

But…really not loving the idea of it.

My attention gets diverted briefly – Teresa's scanning the field from over by Homestead and when her eyes settle on the group, she starts to jog over.

"Yeah - or there could be a dozen Grievers on the other side," Gally says, and his voice cuts through the group. My attention gets dragged away from what might have happened with Alby. "The truth is Thomas doesn't know what he's done – as usual!"

Well…that seems a bit strong, but then again, this is Gally.

But that seems to be just enough for Thomas. He finally blows a fuse and wheels on the Keeper of the Builders. Everyone stops with him – Minho looks ready to back up his new friend and Newt looks a little tired of all the animosity. Still, he ends up planted behind Thomas and he's too smart for that to have been an accident.

They're just getting into it when Teresa catches up.

It takes her a second to break through the argument – she's not comfortable enough yet to outright yell at everyone.

"It's Alby," she says. And that has everyone forgetting the fight in an instant. Thomas and Gally's raised voices die away. "He's awake."

_Awake._

Awake doesn't mean sane. But it's also not dead.

So…Good, right?

Newt's eyes jump towards the Medi Tent and he shares a quick look with both Thomas and Minho before they're hurrying off. Gally, Frypan, Clint and Jeff all run after them. Teresa throws me a fleeting look, a single nod, and follows.

"He'll probably need food," Stan says, to my left. "I'll grab some ration packs."

And I'm reminded again that all these boys look up to Alby. They're all scared. They all want him to pull through. I catch up to him – my own fears can wait for the moment.

"I'll help," I say.

And it's worth it when Stan gives me a brave smile.

The sky's growing darker, bringing the night in, as we make it back to the Kitchen together. Some of the Cooks are still there, pulling a steaming pan of vegetable broth from a grill over the fire.

"Where's Fry?" Alex asks, pausing his knife in the middle of cutting up a duck. "Hey, Eva."

Stan gestures behind us. "Alby's awake."

All the boys stop and look around, waiting for the update.

"Fry's gone over to see him with Newt and Gally," Stan continues. "Don't know what the verdict is yet but at least its looking better than it was yesterday. I was going to take some ration packs to him."

"Take a few," Scott calls out.

Stan makes his way to one of the boxes on the far side of the hut. As he leans down to pick up a few of the sealed packs, Zart ducks into the doorway.

"Guys…you should see this. Something's not right."

"What's up?" Stan asks. He stuffs a couple of the ration packs in his pockets as he turns.

"Does it seem dark to you?"

I frown, trying to focus my eyes on what of the sky I can see through the walls. Everything's dim, though the sky isn't truly dark yet. "Sort of."

"The Maze doesn't think so," Zart says.

_What?_

I feel my eyes widen. Alex drops the knife. We all hurry up to Zart and he swivels around, leading us back outside.

Far across the open field, the Doors stand open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. So this is the 'proper' meeting between Eva and Teresa. Its their first chance to talk to each other alone. And Teresa I always interpreted to be more guarded and cautious with herself than Thomas by a long shot. I kind of got the impression (remembering I hadn't read any of the books at all when I wrote this) that she had some willingness to believe Thomas because she knew his name, and she wanted to know why, but the rest of the boys she wasn't too interested in getting to know. So even if Eva is another girl, I still felt like she'd be wary of her. Their conversation, like Eva's one with Thomas, doesn't really come from a place of friendship; its more that Teresa is trying to scout out her surroundings and the other players, and Eva's seen similar in Thomas, so she just provides the answers without being too bothered. She's aware that Teresa probably doesn't want a friend just yet.
> 
> 2\. The scene between Eva and Chuck is another belatedly added one. Again, I wanted to touch very lightly on Chuck's relationship with Thomas, as there hasn't been too much on that and their dynamic is important for quite a few reasons. Chuck is worried (rightfully so) not just because the job is risky, but because he'll lose a friend; probably his closest one at this stage. And I do feel that Chuck being so young, and therefore more likely to seek a familial connection was a deliberate move on WCKD's part.
> 
> 3\. I always loved some of the expressions you get in that scene where Thomas and Gally round on each other. They tell you a bit, I think.
> 
> 4\. I'm really excited for the next chapter. I had such fun writing it, morbid as that is... And with that...we're almost at the turning point of the story. Hang in there!
> 
> No teaser again - don't want to spoil anything more :)
> 
> Also - Random - Anyone seen The Internship? Recently watched it and debating a fanfic. Its a bundle of laughs with so much fanfic potential XD


	26. And the Night Rages In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the night is full of horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: On screen deaths. Multiple. I wouldn't call them explicit, but you might. Some moreso than others. I certainly don't gloss over them.
> 
> AN: This picks up immediately following the previous chapter.

The Doors have never not closed before.

"What do we do?" Stan asks.

"Is anyone left in the Gardens?" I ask Zart.

"No," he says. "We all packed up and walked down just now. The Slicers followed us. I think Winston was just washing up."

"We need Newt," Alex says.

I bite my lip because – yes – we do sort of need someone to rally everyone together – but can't Newt just have one second to see if his friend is okay?

Apparently not.

"Spread the word," I say. "Make sure everyone's accounted for. I need to go get something."

Zart pats my shoulder, nods and turns towards the Mess Hall without looking back again. Alex and the remaining Cooks scurry through Homestead after him, ducking into the Hammock huts and the shower block as they go.

I start running.

I think I hear Stan call after me, but I don't stop or look back.

I circle around the back of Homestead all the way to my own Hammock hut at the bottom near the tree line. Inside I pick up the silver birch bow and sling it over my back.

If there was ever a good time, this feels like it.

I open up the satchel hanging by my hammock and delve within that, too. Like Clint and Jeff, I usually keep a few bandages, salves and swabs in there to treat small wounds away from the Medi Tent. When I find a fresh bandage, I manage to wind it around my arm; the one I use to hold the bow. It wraps from my knuckles, around my thumb and up to nearly my elbow. It even covers the mostly healed cut on my palm, as a bonus.

And it's actually easier to move with than an arm guard would be, too.

And then I leave, darting across to one of the store huts a short distance off. There are assortments of leather scabbards, belts, satchels and so on tucked away in there to be used. An empty back harness made for a short sword makes a good enough quiver, so I stuff the arrows into it and buckle that over my shoulder, too.

Adrenaline courses through my bloodstream as I run back out, past the Mess hall and towards the empty fire pit.

I can see boys rushing around with torches. It looks like the alarm has been raised.

There's a gathering right at the base of the Doors, and at the distance it's hard to tell exactly who, but I can recognise Frypan's apron and Newt's white shirt with the dark shape diagonally across it that is his machete harness.

At least he's still armed.

And that probably means Minho and Thomas are with him.

So what about Alby?

I glance over to the Medi Tent, but before I can move, a noise blasts through the Glade that has me ducking instinctively, my ears ringing. It sounds like grinding rock and nails on a blackboard.

Something moves over by the Bloodhouse.

It takes me a second to realise that it's one of the other sets of doors. They're groaning open, creepers pinging loose after years of growing into the crevices. Birds scatter into the sky, having to abandon their nests and their frenzied calls fill the air.

_Well. Shit._

One by one, the remaining two sets of doors crack open and my heart falters.

This is going to be a massacre.

I look back over to the group by the first set of Doors. It looks like they're breaking up into smaller parties. I see Minho, Newt and Frypan all run, heading towards Homestead while Chuck and Winston both start for the Council Hall.

And then there's a scream behind me.

A group of boys rush past, all throwing terrified looks over their shoulders. I think I recognise Joe, from the Bricknicks. But more screams and shouts echo from the dark shadow of the woods.

It's already begun.

I turn my back on the field and run into the trees.

It's a good thing I know the Deadheads so well. I'm able to keep up a good pace and not trip over any of the uneven ground as I try to follow the shouts.

They're shouts now – not screams. More like boys rallying together than reacting in terror.

I finally spot the blackness that is the stone wall, and I veer left, knowing if I follow it just a bit longer, I'll reach the set of doors hidden here.

I don't even reach the doors when I catch up to the sounds.

The scene is from a nightmare.

Dan, Frankie, Scott and Rob all rush through the trees in my direction, breathing hard from their failed attempt at running away from the hissing shadow behind them. They reach the corner and wheel around.

Trapped.

A boy lies, crumpled, at the base of a tree not far off; his eyes frozen open, skin already tinted grey. Dead. I swallow back the urge to be sick and turn my attention to the hulking creature that's chased my friends into this corner.

_Biomechanical._

The word leaps to mind without conscious effort.

An ugly, slimy mass of muscle and organs with a mouth on one end – a mouth lined with teeth like shards of glass. Its somehow been surgically attached to a set of six mechanical legs with folding back joints like a spiders' and a flexible, spine-like tail held in an arc like a scorpion with some kind of grasping claw at the end.

The mouth drools with sickly glue-like saliva and the metal legs shine in the faint moonlight. Whirring pistons and wires can just be seen where the joints shift and move – alarmingly fast.

It's a hideous scorpion-slug cross bred monster.

And it's lashing around, sizing up the boys in front of it, as though its only concern is who to snack on first.

The boys must have stopped on the way through to pick up some weapons, because there's a machete at Frankie's waist and both he and Dan carry two long wooden spears each. Scott's holding one of the Kitchen knives in his hand; a massive triangular blade and Rob is armed with a rusty axe.

The Griever's tail swings wide, and both Dan and Frankie have to throw themselves out of its path. It smashes into the side of a tree, bringing down a rain of leaves and twigs.

It leaves a deep scrape into the soft inner wood as it lashes again.

The monster lets out a noise that's somewhere between a hiss and mechanical clicks. Its legs sound like the slice of knives as it shuffles forwards.

"Go!" Dan shouts. He runs forwards, around the Griever's left, ducking the tail and just managing to dodge a spiked foot that comes down behind him. None of the others turn to run. Scott dives in to back him up, but the knife just glances off of the metal legs with loud clanging sounds.

Dan jabs the spear into the creature's soft belly and it makes an enraged shriek before its tail claw pulls the spear away. It snaps it in two and throws the splintered pieces into the trees.

I notch an arrow and raise the bow. My fingers tense on the string and my nerves buzz.

But it's not the best bow, and the last thing I want to do is hit Dan or Scott.

Dan throws himself to the side and scrambles across the earth.

Frankie runs in on the right just as the Griever seems about to zero in on him. "Oi you ugly shank – over here!"

He throws his spear and the Griever visibly recoils as it embeds into the flesh high up, near the mouth end.

Guess there's some kind of brain there.

But all too soon, it shakes angrily, using the tail to dislodge the spear and then turns on Frankie.

"No!" Dan shouts, and he runs for the creature's turned back, hoisting up the second spear. Without turning, the Griever's tail flicks out, catching him across the middle and flinging him backwards. "Frankie!" Dan half-yells in despair, now too winded to help. Scott and Rob exchange looks of horror.

I raise the bow, trying to aim for the head end, and let the string snap through my fingers.

The arrow streaks through the darkness, white feathers on the end spinning, and stabs into the fleshy mass.

The Griever shrieks and wheels around, legs all shuffling rapidly beneath it.

Dan gazes around in astonishment for a drawn out second, Rob throws himself backwards, pulling Scott, and Frankie's eyes are large and round in the gloom.

"Run!" I yell, racing through the trees until I leap over a root and stop in front of them.

Dan looks at me like I'm not even real.

_Honestly, one arrow won't stop the thing._

It takes Dan a second to shake himself, and then he's picking up the spear next to him and using it to whack the Griever, rather than spike it.

Frankie lets out a war cry and charges in, drawing his machete, which he uses to hack blindly at the creature's side.

Now leaking some nasty dark liquid that could be blood or oil, The Griever loses its footing, and with a solid whack from the spear in Dan's hands, it topples into a tree.

"Go. Run. Now," he shouts.

The Griever is already getting to its feet; the wound already starting to seal over.

I throw the bow over my back and race with them.

We're smaller than the Grievers, and we can more easily rush through the roots and low branches, which helps a lot in putting some space between us and the monster we left behind.

We can still hear it in pursuit, though, crashing through the woods as we blaze out right behind the Mess hall.

Screams echo all around the Glade. I think I spot Jeff and Clint carrying Alby between them, leaving the Medi Tent. Jack rushes up to us carrying a spade and a flaming torch with a graze down his arm.

"Rob! Where were you guys?"

Rob looks behind us. "One in the woods," he says, clearly still reeling from the encounter.

"Not just one," I say.

My hands are shaking; my heart is beating so hard that I can feel my pulse on the roof of my mouth and in my head. The blank eyes of the dead boy in the woods sits in my mind. He was already dead when I got there.

"Others already came in before that one," Dan completes the thought. "Now what?"

A Griever bursts out of the trees behind us, head moving about wildly. It has no eyes, but there must be other senses there. Another one follows, but it launches straight past our group and pounces on a boy.

He's dead an instant later.

Frankie pushes both Dan and I over. "Kitchen!" he yells.

Jack and Rob run in our wake as we duck through the back door, past the line of jars, full of Gally's Brew that I helped Frypan with earlier.

It's strange to see the Kitchen so silent and empty; pans just sitting on the work tables, waiting to be served, as shouts and metallic hisses fill the world outside the walls. The gaps between the branches begin to glow gold as torches are dropped and the fire spills; smoke making everything blurred.

"We can't fight them off," Jack says. "They took Joe, too."

There is some space left in my chest that the fear hasn't taken up, and I feel it burst with a numb sadness.

That's three at least.

_How many more are already dead?_

And then my mind darts back to the jars. The hazy smoke and fire through the walls of the abandoned kitchen jogs a memory.

"Flammable," I mutter.

"What?" Frankie asks.

I don't answer. I run past him, back outside, despite the yells and tip over a few of the jars. The Brew soaks across the hard ground in a puddle around the remaining jars.

Over by the Hammock hut, a boy is stabbed into the grass and pulled away by a monster. The group he was hiding with all rush from the hut carrying torches and screaming in terror.

Another Griever swings around the back wall of the Mess hall and turns for me.

Before I can even think _Crap_ , I'm tugged back into the Kitchen by Rob.

"Are you mad?!" Dan demands.

"It's flammable!" I shout back. The creature knows we're here; no need to be quiet. We just have to be fast.

Scott's eyes widen, and I know he's caught on. He reaches over and takes the torch from Jack's grip, then darts outside.

We all crowd around the door.

The Griever is making a beeline for the back of the Kitchen, tail raised in a lethal downward arc and mouth wide as it issues whirring and hissing noises.

Scott throws the torch forwards and it hits the soaked ground next to the jars.

Rob is just close enough to tug him back into the Kitchen by the back of his shirt.

For a moment, I think it's failed.

And then a line of fire spreads across the ground, flaring out around the jars and licking up the sides of the glass.

The Griever scurries over to the back entrance where we wait, oblivious.

There's that awful cracking sound that I remember from the day the Kitchen exploded, and we all dive away from the opening.

The Griever's scream of furious agony fills the air.

A wave of heat washes outwards.

Shattered fragments of glass blast through the doorway and make a delicate tinkling sound as they spray outside.

My heart aches with the force of its pounding under my ribs.

When we chance a glance around the door, the creature's squirming around, fires attacking the fleshy part of it and blackening its metallic legs; shards of glass are embedded in its body like they were in my hand. Small fires have caught in the grass and in the piles of matchsticks that were once stacks of crates and old barrels. The glass on the floor, and what's left of the amber liquid all shine like molten gold in the fire-light, shadows dancing in them.

It truly does look like a bomb site this time.

"Front door, front door," Dan says. He grabs my hand and tugs. I manage to grab Jack's collar, and we all race around the table and out the front of the Kitchen.

Out there, there's another fire going on a huge bonfire of splintered wood that wasn't there earlier. The storage hut next to the Kitchen that _was_ there, no longer is. And by the scorch marks in whirling patterns on the ground, I figure someone else managed to at least light one of the creatures on fire.

"Oh my God, Guys!"

We all spin around. We're all breathing hard. Jack's arm is bleeding lightly, Scott's hand trembles around his Kitchen knife and I feel frazzled by the wave of heat we just ducked.

Stan and Billy race up to us; both scraped and horrified.

Stan claps Scott on the back; it's clear they're glad to see each other. Billy is armed with a mean looking short sword, the blade curved and coated with a very dark liquid that looks familiar.

"You got one?" Rob asks, breathless.

Billy shakes his head. "Not really. Lucky blow, but we're not really having much effect. It took Dave."

I didn't know Dave that well, but I still feel a pulse of grief.

_That's five._

Stan looks over at me, "Where did you go?"

"To get this," Frankie answers for me.

He holds out an arrow.

I recognise it as one of mine the second I see it, never mind that no one's made any before me. The flint tip is blackened with Griever juice, but its otherwise fine. He must have picked it up when the creature shook it loose in the woods.

I take it back.

"Wh-" Stan leans over until he apparently spots the bow over my back. "Is that a _bow_?"

"Told you she was dangerous when she was scared," Dan mutters.

I ignore him. "Are you two okay? Who else have you seen?"

"I haven't seen Jackson since Thomas and Minho came back earlier today," Billy reports quickly.

"Frypan was with Minho and Newt," Stan follows up. "They grabbed weapons from the store hut and headed for Council Hall. Apparently everyone's meant to be barricading themselves in."

I try very hard not to focus on Newt's name in that sentence, but the relief that someone's seen him alive since I last did makes me nearly light-headed.

"They're okay?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

Stan looks at me and nods. I get the feeling that he knows that answer is more important to me than it probably should be.

"Too late for the Council Hall," Rob says. He points. There's blood on his sleeve.

It's a long way off across the open field, but I can see the dark shapes of at least three Grievers crawling around the walls, and one on the roof.

"We need to hide," Dan says. "Stick together. We're going into the woods."

"Back in there?" Jack asks, his voice raising.

"They can't move as fast in there," I say, knowing that is Dan's reasoning.

"Let's move," Stan says. He jerks his head and takes off at a run at the front of the group. We all follow behind him, sneaking around the worryingly quiet huts towards the woods.

"Something's wrong," Frankie says, as we get to the back of Homestead.

I have to agree.

Not just because Grievers are attacking on all sides, but because they're suddenly _not_.

"There was more than this," Scott says, and it's a whisper.

There's a strange ache in my chest, and I double back, moving quietly.

"Eva!" Dan whisper-yells after me.

Stan jogs to catch up and we peer around the Hammock hut.

Everything is wrecked. It'll take the Builders weeks to fix everything. The idea of it makes me feel ill in a way I can't name.

I can only just see the shape of Council Hall in the farthest corner of the Glade.

And then the shape on the roof drops as the whole ceiling caves in.

_No._

I feel a half sob choke out of my throat, but the second I step to run for the Hall, Stan grabs my arm and yanks me backwards. He's younger than me, but strong enough to do it.

He points over towards the Medi Tent.

It's just a short trek from here, and a Griever shuffles around the front of it, the fleshy head part moving in an odd way as its legs whirr quietly.

I nod.

Panic has to take a backseat. There's still a threat. Stan lets me go.

"What's it doing?" I mutter. I grasp the situation with all of my focus, hoping it will calm the fear lodged inside of me from watching the cave in.

"Sniffing?" Stan whispers back. "I think it uses a sense of smell, maybe?"

"Well I don't think it can see," I say.

But it's clear that while the attack on the village has lulled, there's still Grievers lurking around, waiting to catch Gladers. It's not safe to sprint for the Council Hall right now.

"Woods," I whisper, turning back around.

Stan looks faintly relieved as he nods.

We hurry as quietly as we can back to the others, who all stand just inside the trees, eyes darting about nervously.

"Do we climb?" Rob asks as we start moving, keeping close together.

"No," Billy says, decisively. "If we climb and they find us, there's only one way down."

_Kid's got a point._

"So just hide?" Rob tries instead. "And run if they're coming?"

"The doors," I say. And I turn, moving onto a new path. I know where the doors in the Deadheads are – running through them for the past five months has paid off.

"Definitely mad," Dan mutters to himself.

Stan elbows him.

"Why?" Jack asks.

"Because," I say. "If we stop somewhere we can see the doors, we can see if more arrive, or if any leave. We can't kill them, apparently, but I'd like to know exactly what I'm up against."

Scott and Stan share a look. Rob just nods once. I lead them towards the doors.

It doesn't take too long, moving at a jog, though we stop twice when we hear mechanical whirring between the trees. And finally, deaf to the rest of the Glade and what's happening, we sit, hidden by roots and moss, as first one, then two and then three Grievers all make their way out of the Glade.

The doors remain open.

"Is it over?" Jack asks when the third Griever leaves, its tail whipping back into the Maze last, metal scraping against stone.

Billy gives him a helpless shrug.

"Time to go back," Dan says.

I nod.

We all slowly stand; keeping our eyes peeled for movement, and then begin jogging back towards Homestead.

We should have known it couldn't just be over like that.

The scream comes from right behind me.

_Right_ behind me.

I can just see the orange glow of still burning fires around the village when the horrible, tortured sound splits the air. It sends renewed fear lancing up my spine, despite thinking I couldn't take any more.

_Who?_

I wheel around, and Scott catches my arm to stop me falling over. His grip is stone cold.

A Griever is behind us, already wheeling around and scurrying away, and Billy is trapped between its teeth. His screams fill the air, making my ears ring and my body feels cold at the absolute terror in the awful sound.

Billy's face is white. His blood streams across the monster's flesh. The last thing I see as he's carried off are his hands reaching out for help that doesn't come.

I feel my stomach drop and my breathing stops. Jack's gone white and Dan's frozen.

"No!" Stan yells. "Billy!" But there's nothing any of us can do.

_Six_ , I think in horror.

"Come on," Rob says, and it sounds like he's talking through a raging head cold. "We have to get back to Homestead. See…"

_See who's left._

He doesn't have to finish.

I try to suck in a breath, and it hurts my chest to breathe it in. Dan's voice is ragged when he says, "Yeah, let's go."

We don't jog this time.

I'm bone tired, shaken and terrified of what we'll find when we arrive. We walk back through the trees, but there's no more screams, no more monsters in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. This chapter was a lot of fun to write (worrying, considering the nature of it, I know). But the logistics of it, as well as the constant pacing were what I liked, too. I never thought I was too good at action sequences, so I'm sorry if it did feel lacking anywhere. But on the logistic side, I knew a long time before reaching this point that I was going to write 'the other side' of that night. Obviously I'm not altering any movie scenes, and for me, that meant Eva wasn't in the Council Hall, since we never saw her on camera. So where was she instead? And that was the start up for how I saw this night playing out. Where other Gladers might have been and how they might have coped during the events we did see.
> 
> 2\. Which kind of leads into this. I told you I'd start bringing up the Kitchen Explosion incident when it was relevant later. More of it is still relevant in the future, but hopefully you can see how some of it showed up here. Eva and Scott - both of whom were in the Kitchen at the time of the Incident, remembered how unstable Gally's Brew is... So that was useful. And I felt it tied in nicely to the film, as Teresa uses a jar of it to light up another Griever.
> 
> 3\. I want to mention the deaths, because there's thought behind those, too, but that will wait until the next chapter, I think. You'll see why. For now, just know that Billy's was necessary and deliberate. More on that next time.
> 
> 4\. On that mention of the sickness Eva feels...Its a little complicated, its no wonder she can't explain it. She automatically thinks it will take the builders weeks to fix everything, so for starters, she's already subconsciously accepted the indefinite nature of her life in the Glade; she's thinking ahead by weeks, not hours or days. That alone is saddening, really, but on top of that, the Glade has at least always been safe, if not happy or ideal. But now, its not safe either. And a combination of those things - looking at an indefinite future somewhere you had to build a life but is no longer safe - I figure that could make anyone kind of ill.
> 
> 5\. And a quick mention on the lack of Newt in the last couple of chapters. Again, quite on purpose. Eva and Newt have different jobs, so on a normal day (though they're not common, lately) they wouldn't cross paths too often. In this instance, Newt just ends up with Thomas and other Gladers elsewhere. But as well as fitting to the movie's events, I wanted this to play out as it did for my own reasons. They're not going to spend the whole night running around holding hands and coddling each other or being a power couple. Newt is doing what he feels is best and Eva - while concerned for him - is getting on with what she feels is best. Each of them are independent people able to keep their minds on the immediate situation. In short, I wanted this scene to be about Eva, her own fears and ways of coping, the horror of what's happening, and about the boys she's with - not about her and Newt. I hope that makes sense. But don't worry; he'll be back really soon...
> 
> Yeah...no teasers here, either. I may have to officially stop with these to prevent spoiling too much stuff.


	27. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are choices to make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: fallout from the night before. No on screen deaths, but more names added to the body count.
> 
> AN: So, in order to keep things flowing as nicely as I can for the storytelling aspect, you get a nice long chapter. And as a bonus there's some nice Newt and Eva moments. I do also explain a bit more about the deaths at the bottom, for those of you interested in that and/or upset about it in the last chapter.
> 
> Try to enjoy :)
> 
> Picks up almost immediately following the last chapter. Very little time delay.

Homestead is nothing but smoke, splinters and scattered memories.

The fires are still going, but they look like they're dying out on their own. The back of the Kitchen is a blackened stain, the ground scorched and still littered with shards of glass. The Hammock hut has a splintered section of wall, and three hammocks have been pulled down; the bedding spread across the grass. More than two of the storage huts have been obliterated and the remnants have fed the fires. Smoke clouds the air, thick and carrying off across the field.

It looks like someone dropped a bomb on our home.

But it's not home. Not really.

Nothing's moving.

"Some of the others made it…right?" Scott asks. The words rasp in his throat.

"They must have," Stan says, sounding a little better. "A bunch of the best fighters were all together."

"In the Council Hall," Dan says. His voice is hollow. "They were in it when it collapsed."

I swallow back tears, my throat feeling tight.

I'm struck with the thought that this is how Newt must have felt the night the Maze shut on Minho, Alby and Thomas. This feeling that the people who mean the most to you have their fate sealed, and all you can do is wait to find the bodies.

"I'm going to try the Infirmary," Jack says.

Not having a better plan, we all start walking behind him. Stan puts himself at my side.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is very quiet. "Newt asked about you."

I shoot him a glance, but I quickly realise that looking at his grief-stricken face is just too hard. I focus ahead on Scott's back instead.

I don't need to prompt him to continue.

"When I crossed paths with him, Fry and Minho earlier, picking up weapons; Newt asked if I'd seen you. I…I had to tell him that you'd disappeared somewhere – said you had to get something. I don't think I've ever seen that look on his face before."

Stan stops, and I'm kind of glad. I don't want him to describe the expression.

I haven't seen Newt since he was up by the Doors before dark truly fell. The fear that I might not ever again has taken root in my chest and it's hard to breathe around. Of course I would miss so many of them; Fry, Zart, Winston…but Newt's is the one absence that I think could cripple me. And I didn't realise until now, as I'm faced with the possibility of it.

"Over there!" Dan calls out from in front of us.

Stan looks up.

It looks like…

"Fry!"

Scott and Stan both yell. Relief hits me like being punched in the chest. Dan picks up the pace and we all end up jogging wearily but gratefully across the open grass to Frypan.

He's coated in a thin layer of dust, and scratched, but he looks fine otherwise.

"Stan! Scott!" Frypan claps the both of them on the shoulder in welcome as soon as they're in reach. He's clearly happy to see they made it.

We gather around them and Frypan looks past his team members.

"Damn, its good to see you guys!" and then he catches sight of me. "Eva?"

"Thanks for sounding so surprised," I say dryly, wearily.

I'm not even sure it's the moment for humour, but it comes out anyway.

Frypan shakes his head. "No," he says. "Not that. Newt's looking for you."

My heart stutters. My chest hurts.

"He's okay?"

Frypan pulls an odd face, "He will be."

"You were all in the cave in," Rob says. "Did everyone get out?"

And Fry's expression falls. "No…we lost a few. Alex is gone. So's Doug. And…Alby."

I feel the group deflate as one.

"Alby?" Scott asks, voice hanging by a thread.

"A Griever got hold of Chuck," Frypan says. He's clearly had a chance to handle this; his voice is stronger. "Tried to sting him when it couldn't pull him away from us. Alby lost it – he did some serious damage to the tail until it let go of Chuck…then it came back for him.

"And that was it." Frypan sighs. "As soon as it wrenched Alby away, Thomas shot out after him, but everything was quiet. They all just left."

"So where is everyone?" Dan asks.

"I was waiting here – figured I'd be seen easily if anyone's coming out of hiding. Winston went to do a search with Lee. Newt's looking for Eva. Thomas…he's in the Pit."

" _What?_ " Jack says hollowly, finally speaking up.

Frypan looks aggravated. "Yeah. Gally punched him. Said he caused everything to go wrong. Thomas stung himself with the injection from the Griever. Teresa sent Jeff to get the other cure and Gally had the both of them chucked in the Slammer. It's not looking good right now. I mean, they'll live, but I've never seen Gally like this before."

I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that the sting is apparently a mechanical part, rather than organic, so I cast that aside.

"Where is Gally?" Frankie asks.

Frypan waves a hand across the field.

At the base of the Lookout Tree, I can just see a small gathering of boys.

"Rallying his troops," Fry says, and his tone is distasteful.

Dan frowns. I see him lean in and he starts up a hushed conversation with Frypan, but I completely zone out the second I see a familiar figure round the blackened shape of the Kitchen.

My heart twists so violently that I skip a breath.

Newt's still limping, but it's no worse than before. He looks exhausted, but there's something anxious in the way he's moving, and I recognise it because I've felt that way since leaving the woods.

I don't say anything to the others, and none of them call out for me as I take off at a dead sprint in his direction.

He looks up, and even with the distance across the field, I can see the way his shoulders relax in relief as he starts towards me.

I'd planned on hugging him.

But I collide with him halfway, and his body absorbs the impact by curving around mine. His arms band tight around my waist; the warmest thing I've felt all night, despite the explosion we started and all the fires. Mine curl around his shoulders, fisting the material of his shirt in my shaking hands.

And then his mouth is on mine and we're kissing and I can't tell who moved first.

Not that it really matters.

He's warm, and he still tastes like honey and wood smoke. There's a mix of something frantic and settled in the way his lips move against mine; a knot simultaneously tightens and loosens in the base of my spine. Relief and belonging flood through me, blazing hot. I feel one of his arms loosen, move, and his fingers curl against my neck, twisting strands of my hair between them.

I've been feeling a little light headed all night, what with the panic, so I don't realise immediately when I've used up all my oxygen. When I do pull back, drawing in a breath feels strange and jarring.

It's been weeks – nearly two – since I last kissed him, and that suddenly seems like a long time.

Newt's forehead presses against mine. I can see – feel – the rise and fall of his chest as he pulls in breaths of his own.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing I can think to say.

He lifts his head, expression faltering, and he frowns.

"About Alby," I clarify.

I think I see relief rush through his eyes, which seems odd to me, but I shouldn't exactly be judging. I did just kiss him after witnessing more than a couple of horrible deaths.

He hugs me close again, and I press my head into his shoulder. I don't know if that's him shaking, or if it's me.

"It'll be okay," he says quietly.

And though there's a touch of pain in his voice, something tells me he means it. He's not okay right now; how could he be? But as Frypan said – he will be in time. I'm momentarily surprised – I expected Alby's loss to hit him much harder.

Then I half smile into his shirt.

He's always been stronger than he looks, and I shouldn't have forgotten that.

I've only been here five months, and I've seen a couple of banishings, but Newt's been here from the start, and he's seen worse. I guess that makes it easier to brace yourself for it. Maybe some of the fear I saw in him that night outside the Maze wasn't just the loss of his friends, but the knowledge he would have to lead alone.

But there's a kind of energy in him – something like hope or a new focus – that I haven't really seen before. I wonder if that has something to do with how together he is.

"I'm glad you're okay," I murmur against him. It feels like an admission of something I haven't really thought about.

He squeezes me tighter for just a heartbeat in response.

"Are you alright?" he asks. It's at this point we disentangle and I lean into his side as naturally as always as we head back for the group. Newt taps the end of the bow, jutting out over my shoulder. There's a question there, but my brain can't fathom what it is right now.

"…Yeah…I think so," I say slowly. And I do mean it; I'm not hurt, I'm alive, and he's okay, which helps. But…there's still death behind my eyes when they close.

Newt nods slightly, and I think he gets it.

…

We walk back silently; not needing words. We reach the group gathered around Frypan out in the open darkness of the field.

None of them even look the least bit surprised as we approach, despite having witnessed my unplanned collision with Newt by what's left of the Mess hall. It should probably bother me more than it does. They all just give us small smiles, like they knew about it before we did.

_They probably did._

Newt claps Dan on the shoulder when we get close enough, and Dan gives him a solid nod. His gaze slides across to me and he spares a fond smile before he's all business again.

"I need to find Winston," he says. "And Lee and the others."

"They both got out of the Council Hall okay," Newt tells him. "They headed up for the Bloodhouse to see if anyone was around. They're sending them towards Homestead."

"I'll follow that way," Dan says.

"I'm coming," Frankie adds.

The two of them share nods and pats on the back with the others before they jog away, across the dark field.

"What about Clint and Jeff?" Rob asks.

I'm reminded that there was blood on his sleeve.

"Both fine when Thomas stung himself," Frypan reports. "Jeff went to get the cure; Clint went with him when Gally had him carted off to the Slammer."

I feel Newt's fingers press into my side, but he doesn't say a word, and his face gives nothing away.

He doesn't approve; I can feel that anyway.

That's almost all the names off the top of my head – good or bad.

"What about Zart?" I ask.

Frypan shakes his head. "Haven't seen him since we split at the Doors; haven't seen half the Track-Hoes, though."

I pray that he's hiding in the corn field or the Butchery, which is the closest hut to the Gardens…but I won't feel settled until I've seen him myself.

"Do what you can to put out the fires," Newt says to the group. Frypan, Rob, Scott, Stan and Jack all nod. "Winston's directing people towards Homestead. Minho and Chuck went with Thomas and Teresa. We'll head for the other end and send over anyone we find. And if you see Billy-"

My fingers clench reflexively at the name, remembering his pale, terrified face as he was carried away, and its Newt's turn to look down at me.

It takes me a second to realise I'm still gripping the back of his shirt, so I force myself to let go. I move out from under his arm, too, wringing out my hands.

"Not Billy," I say, feeling slightly ill again. "He's…"

But I can't finish. I rake my hands through my hair in agitation. It spills back across my shoulders.

"He was with us most of the night," Rob says. "We caught up to him right after Eva rescued us in the woods. We were just on our way back to Homestead ages later and he…"

"One got him," Stan finishes. "From right behind us. Never even heard it. He was still alive when it…took him."

Newt's jaw clenches for a second, before he has to swallow back the pain of another name to cross off the wall.

"Eva rescued you?" he asks instead.

A ripple goes through the group, in gratefulness at the change of subject.

"Yeah," Scott takes it up, glancing over at me. "We'd been running from one of them way back by the wall but we couldn't lose it. It cornered us and Dan was going to draw its attention so we could bail. But we couldn't just leave him.

"We had no idea, though. It tossed Dan aside, didn't take any notice of me, and then turned on Frankie. It had him cornered when this arrow comes whizzing out of the dark and sticks in its head.

"Didn't kill it – just made it angry, really, but it distracted it enough for Frankie to move. And she comes running out of the woods with this…this bow…and I swear Dan looks at her like she's some kind of guardian angel before he picks up his brains and hits the thing."

I think I might be blushing.

Not much these boys say any more embarrasses me, but Scott telling this story makes me sound far cooler than it felt at the time.

"He's embellishing," I say. "We have to move."

Newt, now with a softer expression; like the story actually mattered to him, nods. "Okay, so if you see Jackson, or anyone else willing, see if they can start up a patrol."

"On it," Frypan promises.

Newt reaches out for my hand and gently pulls.

"Come on."

I smile back at the others as best I can, and quickly suggest that Rob gets his arm looked at before I willingly follow Newt away.

…

"What's going on with Gally?" I ask, the minute we're out of earshot and the others are getting to work. "Fry said he put Thomas in the Pit? And Thomas stung himself?"

Newt nods. He looks grim.

"I think he's staging a coup," he says. "He may be a bit hot headed and difficult, but there's plenty of Gladers who see things the same way and who'll follow him because he's so sure about what he's doing."

I bite my lip, worry fizzling in my chest, because _this is a real possibility_.

Thomas' arrival started the fault lines that would eventually cause a split in the Glade, and this attack seems to have jarred them enough that the earth's now cracked wide.

Gally wants Thomas gone. He's in the Pit, and that's not a long stay type place. Anyone who takes Thomas' side will quickly be seen as a threat to the Glade's future, too. It's easy to predict how fear will manifest in a personality like Gally's.

I decide to handle that a bit later.

"What's with Thomas stinging himself?" I ask instead. "Fry said something about an injection?"

"The bloody sting's manufactured," Newt confirms. "Part of the mechanics."

Which means someone invented the poison and purposefully armed the Grievers with it.

_Thanks._

"When Alby woke up from the cure…he'd remembered things," Newt continues. "I don't think it was everything, but it was a whole lot more than what you get with the sting on its own. And it took away the madness. We kind of figured the cure somehow lowers the block on our memories as it works."

"What did he remember?" I ask, half afraid of the answer.

Newt sighs. Reaching the corner of the Glade, we start to double back, this time trekking through the trees and keeping an eye out for anyone who might have managed to hide. Our fingers are still laced together, and now I can't find the motivation to change or question it.

"He remembered Thomas," Newt says. "It didn't make a whole lot of sense. Thomas was a favourite – he somehow knew the creators, I guess. Alby couldn't work out why they would have put him here, so I don't think he was meant to be a Glader.

"And after Gally punched him and blamed him for everything going wrong…Thomas decided being stung and cured was worth it to get his memories back."

"Do you think it is?"

Somehow I can see that same hopeful energy buzzing just under Newt's skin as we walk.

He looks over at me and stops. I pause and turn to face him. The woods are silent.

"I think that whatever he remembers can help us get out of here. And if there's ever a time we need to do that, its now. I don't know what Gally has planned, but things aren't going to go on like normal tomorrow.

"I'd rather risk a chance on a way out than keep waiting in here. It's just…"

Newt's expression falters with something scared, and I suddenly realise I know what he can't say.

He wants to leave. It's all he's ever wanted. And I know that the energy in him comes from somehow believing he's really going to get out. Finally.

But a part of him doesn't want to leave without me.

I'm not going to make him choose.

"Hey, count me in for the field trip," I say.

I'm pretty much just _done_ with this place now. And with all four sets of doors standing open into the night, it's never felt less safe.

The look of relief on Newt's face is worth that decision a hundred times over.

…

We only find a few more boys in the woods.

Finally, we're approaching the wrecked silhouette of Homestead again ourselves.

Gally's group have disappeared from the base of the Lookout Tree.

"If Gally's preparing tonight, we need to get ready, too," Newt says, as though he's read my mind. "As soon as Thomas wakes up, things are going to start happening fast."

"You should talk to the Keepers," I mutter, to avoid being heard as we move past Gladers who are putting out the last of the fires. "Winston would listen at least. Fry would back you up in an instant. Zart-"

My words catch.

We still haven't found him.

I bite back the urge to cry. I'm fed up of teetering on this ledge of grief and despair.

"If they'll listen or side with Thomas, maybe their teams will." I say instead.

"That's what I was thinking," Newt murmurs.

Frypan and Stan both drop into the Kitchen ahead of us.

"Perfect," I say. I jerk my head towards them, gently pulling my hand from his. "Go ahead."

I've not even taken two steps away when Newt wheels on me, brow furrowed.

"Whoa, where are you going?"

I bite my lip. "The Pit," I say. "It sounds like Chuck and Minho are still over there. They should know what's happening. I'll catch up with you in a bit."

Newt looks reluctant, but he nods anyway. "Be careful."

I throw him a quick smile. "I'm always careful." And I pick up an easy jog, running around the back of the Hammock huts and out towards the shower block.

The Slammer is a trench dug into the ground, behind the showers and bathrooms. Over it, the Builders have erected a triangular slanting roof covering a row of about four 'cells'. Each has their own door made from neatly criss-crossed sticks, firmly roped together.

I've been past it before and explored for fun, but never really had a need to visit much. I was never put in one of the cells on my first day, like everyone else, on account of no one could find me.

But at the moment, Chuck and Minho are both sitting in the dust outside one of the closed doors. Chuck leans on a flaming torch, and there's the low hum of whispers.

"How is he?" I ask quietly as I approach.

Minho looks up, registering my presence with eyes that go from protective to tired. His hand, resting against the handle of his machete relaxes a fraction. I realise – mainly because I haven't thought about it before – that Minho and Thomas getting stuck in the Maze overnight really cemented the kind of friendship that would survive a war. Minho's here, not just to worry about him or keep him company, but to protect him.

"Still out of it," he says. "Muttering nonsense about brain scans, swipes and fear responses. But none of the veins have come up. It took Alby a while to come around so I think we're okay for now."

I slowly sink down next to them and peer into the shadowy ditch.

In the flickering light of Chuck's torch, I can see Thomas twitching as he lies on his side, still in his blue shirt and Runner's harness. His brow is furrowed, even in unconsciousness, and his head rests in Teresa's lap.

Her black hair spills over her shoulders and she gently brushes Thomas' forehead with her fingers. Her expression is worried.

"What about everyone else?" Chuck asks.

"Quite a few made it," I say. "Alex and Doug are gone. Joe. Billy…"

Minho's head hangs for a moment. Then he looks up at me. "Where did you go?" Before I can answer, he continues straight on, "Stan was the last person to see you before it even got totally dark, and then no one saw you all night. Tell me you found Newt."

The memory of Newt pressed tight against me is more vivid than I care to admit.

"I found him," I say. "I ended up in the woods with a bunch of the guys. We had to double back when the Council Hall collapsed because Grievers were still sniffing around."

The question I'm burning to ask finally works past my lips. "Have any of you seen Zart?"

Chuck and Minho both shake their heads. It's Teresa, who replies, just barely lifting her head.

"He's gone."

And I think I knew it anyway, but it still hurts to hear. Something inside me crumples. One of the very first boys to make me feel like I could belong on my first evening in the Glade; gone. The memory of his smile spreading from ear to ear passes through my mind like a ghost.

Teresa swallows. "He was with us when we all hid in the corn field. I think there must have been at least two. Another kid got yanked away without us seeing. Zart got pinned by the tail, and then he was flung away. Thomas couldn't grab him in time."

And now its Billy's face that swims to mind. None of us could move in time, either.

I nod, trying to swallow down the choked feeling stuck at the back of my throat.

"So what's happening?" Chuck asks now. He valiantly fights off a yawn, though his eyes are glassy.

"Gally's staging something," I say. "Newt thinks he'll have taken over by morning."

"Time to make your choices," Minho says, half to himself, and I'm glad that he understands.

"We're getting ready to leave," I say, very quiet, despite no one else being around. "Newt's trying to rally up some of the others. He was going to find Fry, Winston and…," I swallow over the gap where Zart's name should be. It still hurts. "We're thinking Thomas was sent here for this and after what you two found in the Maze…"

"You're going to have everything ready for tomorrow morning," Minho says, a light settling into his eyes that's been sorely missing for some time.

He's wanted to leave for years, too.

I nod.

"We're in," Minho says. Teresa nods firmly. Thomas mutters about immune children – but he'll be the first to dive back in the Maze when he wakes. Chuck's grip tightens on the torch until his knuckles go white.

"I'm coming, too," he says.

Minho glances into the Pit at his friend. "Okay, here's what we do. Chuck, you need to pack some essentials. Distribute them through a few bags and hide them where you can get to them quickly. Weapons, too. I'm staying here; just in case Gally decides to act early."

Chuck nods, taking his task very seriously as he stands and hurries away into the night.

"Eva-" Minho starts.

"I've got to get some things," I say.

"Thomas is going to get us out."

It's not what I expected.

When Minho speaks again, each of his words are carefully chosen. "Before he killed that Griever, there _wasn't_ a way out. I finished mapping the Maze over eight months ago."

My breath catches in my chest.

Very suddenly, I'm torn between the violent impulse to hit or yell at him – this is a pretty huge secret to keep from everyone for the better part of a year. And he knew when he took me into the Maze while Ben was sick that there was no exit.

Explains how he could spare a day to show me around, and another to let me test myself.

But following right on the tail of that impulse, is an understanding that hits like a solid punch.

Newt tried to kill himself just because of the repetition of trying to find the way out. What would have happened if everyone knew there wasn't one at all? Or did he?

"Does Newt know?" I ask. My voice comes out cracked.

Minho shakes his head, confirming my thoughts. "Ben, Doug, Justin and I found out. We told Dimitri when he joined, and Alby. Alby was the one who said to keep it quiet – said having hope was important. And I told Thomas when he was made a Runner." There's a sad pause, and then Minho says, "I'm sorry."

I shake my head. The violent urge has all but gone.

"I get why you did it. But you're right; we are getting out now."

Minho nods, like he really believes it.

"And I can't promise I won't tell Newt," I say. I already hate the idea that I may have to keep this secret, but I'm relieved when Minho nods again.

"That's okay. The truth won't be able to hurt him after tomorrow. And if he finds out someone kept it from him, that should be on me, not you. Anyway – you should go, Eva. You need to sleep a little bit tonight, at least."

I don't know how easy that will be, but I smile tiredly anyway and leave Minho sat outside the Pit in the dark.

…

Has it really just been a day since I was last here?

I've snuck into the abandoned Medi Tent, knowing what I'm looking for. The last people in here would have been Clint and Jeff, helping Alby out before the attack.

I haven't seen either of them, but at least I've been told they're both okay.

It's strange to think that on any other day, I'd already be asleep. I'd be waking in the morning and sorting out all these supplies after breakfast before heading up to the Bloodhouse to feed the animals.

My mind stalls as a little mottled rabbit floats across it. White-Foot.

I don't even know if he survived the night. I'll probably never see him again, and I have to swallow down a discomforting feeling when I realise that makes me nearly as sad as knowing how many Gladers we've lost in just a matter of hours.

I saved his life once; gave him five months he wouldn't have had, and I try to content myself with that as I force him to the back of my thoughts.

There's things to do.

I get to work, opening up one of the old storage crates – missing items are less likely to be spotted so quickly from them – and grabbing several items. An antiseptic paste, bandages, two sealed needle containers, gauze and an anaesthetic mix are all bundled into a sling.

Just before I put the lid back on, a small tin at the bottom catches my eye, and I remember it before I touch it.

I remember cutting the contraceptive out of my arm, then injecting a new one myself.

I pick up the tin, knowing the syringe gun is inside it, and throw that in the sling, too.

I don't see anyone as I make my way back for my own hammock.

The hut is empty and still. There are no torches on and not much of a moon, so I pick my way through almost total blackness, finding my satchel by feel.

I dump the contents of the sling into it, and add the items from under my bed; the tiny knife I've kept all these months and the old contraceptive capsule. I unwind my arm bandage and lay it on top; I'll need that again.

I finally pull the bow off my back, but I set it against the wall, with the leather harness full of arrows. I'll need them, too. I won't pack them away.

I can't help pacing the room after that, my mind frazzled as it runs over everything.

This is happening.

We're _leaving_.

…

The sky is still black, but the smoke is slowly clearing when Newt drops into the hut.

"Eva?"

He sounds worried, so I'm quick to whisper back to him, rounding the partition to his section.

He shrugs out of his machete harness, hanging it on the usual post.

"Minho said you'd gone off again," Newt says, though he sounds resigned - oddly fond – rather than annoyed or upset. He quickly moves past it, sinking sideways onto his hammock as he continues. "Frypan's in. Winston's worried about his team at the minute, and scared of trying the Maze, but he's not impressed with Gally. Dan's in. Jack said he'll see what he can do."

He shakes his head, fighting off a yawn, and rubs the back of his neck instead.

Just watching him makes me feel tired.

"All the fires are out. I sent everyone off to get some sleep. Haven't seen Gally but Eric and Henry were passing the Mess hall and said he looked ready to crash, last they saw."

"Good," I say quickly, spotting an opening. "Even Gally is going to sleep soon, so you can, too."

Newt looks up at me, clearly conflicted.

I walk over to him. "You've done all you can. Even Gally won't just throw Thomas in the Maze with no witnesses. If we're really escaping tomorrow – today – we need sleep."

We need to at least try.

I've walked close enough that I can reach out and pick up the end of one of his blankets. Smiling is exhausting, but I do it anyway as I toss the one in my hand over his head.

The strained feeling in the air breaks.

Newt blindly catches my wrist and tugs, as he fights off the blanket and huffs a laugh. The hammock sways under the movement and I topple across him, into the cradle of the worn fabric.

I'm so tired in so many ways that it's the most comfortable thing I've ever felt.

"I think I'm just going to sleep here," I say.

I'm sort of joking, but Newt just shifts around, lifting my legs off of his, ignoring my amused 'what are you doing?', until we're bundled into the hammock pretty comfortably together.

"Go to sleep," he says, voice quiet against my hair.

I kick off my boots, hear them hit the floor quietly, and turn into Newt's warmth.

"If you say so," I mutter.

I feel him kiss my forehead and I'm asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> Buckle in; lots of it.
> 
> 1\. Right. The deaths. This is something I feel is really important. The movie was very good at sort of avoiding the true horror of the Griever attack, I personally think. Sure, it was nasty, and it destroyed the Glade and people died, and Alby was killed...but how many of those boys could you name? How many did you know? Two. Alby and Zart. But I've made this entire story about the family, the community, the characters themselves. So it was really important for me that the deaths you see here aren't faceless. They're people I've (hopefully) brought to life, at least a little, and that should always have a bigger impact than killing off someone you never got to know in the first place. So do me a small favour and just compare the two names in the movie that really mattered, to the body count here, and (awful as it may seem) I really hope the number for this story is higher; Alex, Doug, Joe, Billy. None of them have been central to this story in the way Fry, Stan, Dan, Frankie and so on have been, but they're hopefully still names you recognise and can remember. And to me, that makes the difference. It makes the situation that much worse. Which is the whole point.
> 
> 2\. Specific deaths: Billy. This one was necessary. A death had to happen directly within the group Eva banded with during the night. The immediacy of it; how easily he was snatched and how closely he worked with them all combine to bring the reality of the danger that much closer. And the fact that you see a fragment of his fate; he's still alive when he's dragged away, is a further descent into the horror of it. Because this event shouldn't be a cool thing in my mind. It shouldn't be an opportunity to be heroic or awesome and show off. Its a set up and everyone knows that they're not all going to survive. Just my opinion.
> 
> 3\. Zart. I hate this. If I was going to save anyone...but nope. I'm not interfering with the plot as you see it. So his death was a very sad given. And I think his absence is one that would probably impact Eva the most, because he's one of the first people she ever spoke to, and he's always kind of been there. But as it is, there's too much happening for her to dwell on it. Which can only be a good thing...
> 
> 4\. And the third one is Alby. Obviously this was in the film, so it comes under the 'foregone conclusion' band. You knew it was going to happen anyway. But I feel Newt's reaction is kind of important. Alby's death does affect him; its his best friend. But Newt has already sort of faced the reality of Alby dying before tonight. I personally think he probably processed it as an actuality the night he got stuck out there, and every day he lived beyond that was already borrowed time. So while it will hurt, and he will need to grieve, Newt's already been able to compartmentalise that before the attack even happened. I have more thoughts on this, but they're not as relevant here.
> 
> 5\. Last point on the deaths. All of the boys who died do hold with what information we are given in canon. I used the Book's Wiki to work out which boys died during the night raids by the Grievers, and I also used the Name Wall seen in the film as a guide. For instance, the name 'Justin' on the name wall is crossed out all the way through the movie, which is what inspired me to make Justin a Runner who was banished before Thomas arrives. This is just one example. But effectively, I've cross referenced the names all the way through to be sure the correct characters have the right fates.
> 
> 6\. The Maze. Alby and the Runners knew about the lack of an exit and kept it secret. This is kind of left open to interpretation, I think, but in my mind, Newt didn't know. If he jumped well over a year ago, but Minho only started exploring the outer sections a year ago, that means Newt had already attempted suicide before Minho discovered there was no way out. I just don't think Alby or Minho would risk telling him. So that's the way I wrote it.
> 
> 7\. Nearly finished, then (lots of thoughts on this chapter) I liked exploring the rest of this night. With Thomas blacked out, you miss out on what must have been going on, but I always thought a lot of planning happened before the next morning. By the time Thomas wakes up it's already light, and I don't think they'd have the time to plan everything out, pack supplies and spread the word before Gally was in action. Chuck has a lot of supplies ready, as well as the spears. Newt and Minho have a plan that they don't even use words to communicate, and everyone moves very smoothly to overpower Gally. Yep, I think that was planned before morning, so this was fun to explore from that side.
> 
> 8\. Newt and Eva. Everyone happy? Their conversation is really close now, but hopefully you're happy with this bit for now :)


	28. Back Into the Maze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is one last run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness; I've been out on another all-day trip of househunting. Still no luck yet.
> 
> Yikes, guys - really amping up now and yet more answers are not far off :) Thank you again to all the endless and wonderful support this story has received, and continues to. I hope you enjoy this next bit!

I don't know what wakes me just a few hours later.

The hammock sways slightly; a serene, lulling motion. I'm half curled in it under blankets that aren't mine and a dim blue light filters through the gaps in the walls.

There's a very soft, rasping noise not far off; familiar and soothing.

It's still very early.

I've been up at around this time before – when I was running through the Deadheads with my bow – and there's just a small window when it's light but before the Gladers wake for the day.

And then, out of nowhere, I realise the hammock feels kind of…empty.

And the second I look up, I realise why.

Newt is sharpening the blade of his machete with the smooth stone, sitting on his stool just a short distance away. He's already wearing his harness over his white shirt, and he's radiating a quiet vibe of resolve.

I watch the rhythmical shift of muscle across his back and shoulders as he works for a moment; the thin fabrics don't disguise his lean frame as well as I thought they did. A bubble of fierce warmth, something sharper than affection, swells above my heart. We've lost too much, and there's too much left for us still to survive. I shouldn't be thinking about it now. But it's there all the same.

I do need to talk to him. About this.

Then he looks up and his eyes – soft, unguarded – meet mine.

I watch his breath let out slowly. Then he sets the stone down and twists the machete in his hand, stabbing the point into the ground.

"Hey," he whispers. His tone is unfamiliar; has a hint of something almost reverent in it.

"Hi," I say, just as quietly.

Then I make myself sit up, letting the blankets fall into my lap, and I rake my hair away from my face with my fingers.

"Is anyone else up?" I ask.

Newt casts a quick glance to the door. "Fry," he says. "I saw him sneak into the Kitchen from here not long ago. I don't know about anyone else."

"Then we need to be up," I say. But before I actually abandon the hammock, I quickly braid back my hair, not caring if it's sloppy.

I'm tying it off when Newt speaks, and his words make me freeze.

"I know I kissed you, weeks ago," he says. "After the Kitchen. I remember that."

I look up at him, not daring to speak yet.

I was sure I'd seen that memory in his eyes, back when Teresa woke up, but hearing him say it feels finite in some way.

He sighs. The Machete turns under his hand, carving into the ground.

"There was never really a right time to tell you," he continues. "And when there was…I got the feeling you didn't want to push it. I know you remember; you weren't the one with a concussion."

I feel my breath rush out. "Yeah," I agree softly. "I remember. But I wasn't sure you did; not until Teresa was throwing the rocks."

Newt's eyes flicker and I figure he's piecing together his own puzzle. "You didn't want to put that memory on me, if I didn't have it," he says, realising for himself.

And I can only nod once, silent, because I'm struck – not for the first time – that he knows me as well as I know him. And I don't know when that started to happen.

"Would you rather I didn't remember?" Newt asks with something like vulnerability.

And that concept is sort of laughable. That memory is one of the most precious I have, and I didn't want to carry it alone. "No."

His voice is a little stronger, a deeper tone. "Would you rather I hadn't done it?"

And I give him a bit of a withering look. Even if I did carry it alone, I wouldn't trade it for the lifetime of memories that were taken from me. "No."

I shrug. "But you were kind of whacked out, so it's not something I want to hold against you, either."

He spins the machete again. "I kissed you last night."

I don't need reminding.

"That might have been me," I say. "And I think you get a free pass on that given we might have died."

I've spent so long keeping this to myself, that I haven't had so much time to get used to the idea that I'm not alone in wanting it. And I want to be sure that it's his choice, as much as it is mine.

But Newt's eyes are firm, locked on mine, and his voice low when he says, "I don't want a free pass."

I bite my lip. The pressing feeling of warmth in my chest feels like a wild hope.

Newt leans forward. "Do you?"

And I feel a smile start to pull at my mouth. I shake my head. "No." Silence gathers in the hut. But in the end, we've gone through too much for me to not be open with him now. "I think I want you."

I mean it in the most basic of ways. I want him in my life, however short it might be. I want more evenings in front of a fire, more chances to laugh with him; just his presence. A lifetime of stolen moments, if that's all we get to have.

And I think he gets that.

I didn't quite realise how strained and weighed down Newt was until I see something in him settle and lift. I can't work out what, but when he stands, a shadow in his eyes has gone. He's still tired and grieving – we all are – but my answer managed to change something.

It gives me the kind of bravery I couldn't find in the days following the Cake Explosion.

He pulls the side of the hammock towards him, and I feel the earth swaying.

"That's good, then," he says quietly. "Because I want you, too."

And I stretch up and kiss him.

It's gentle and searching – more like that day in the Medi Tent than last night. My heart twists, something I'm still getting used to but brings a sense of belonging and a rush of fierce heat that flares underneath my skin. I can feel my own pulse, a pounding rhythm, in the base of my throat.

But it lasts for just a few short moments before I pull back.

He steps away from the hammock, eyes rimmed with honey-gold.

The light is stronger, creeping towards a proper dawn as it filters through the branches of the walls.

And I know our time is up. We need to get moving.

Newt nods; he knows it too.

I jump to the floor, get my boots on and rewind the bandage on my arm.

"I'm going to find Minho and see how Thomas is," Newt says when I'm done.

I pick up my satchel and the bow I rested against the wall the night before.

"Go," I say. "I'll find the others."

"It'll be soon," he tells me seriously, and I know he's read Gally the same as I have; Thomas won't be allowed to hang out in the Pit while there's a vote – he'll just act. "Stay safe, okay?"

I swing the bow over my head, feeling the curve of the wood settle across my back. It doesn't tangle nearly so much in my braided hair.

It sends a warm shockwave down my spine when I reach up to him – standing on my toes to bridge the height difference – and kiss him once. I feel his mouth move softly against mine, even as I pull away.

"I'll find the others and stick with them," I try to reassure him, already moving past him for the door at a quick pace.

"Find Dan," Newt calls after me. I glance back at him.

He flips the machete around his wrist and arcs it over his shoulder, neatly into the scabbard on his back.

Show off.

"Just go," I retort lightly, smiling.

Newt shoots me a look that is a blend of amusement, exasperation, worry and something more like…genuine affection.

I don't stick around and my heart pulses as I run into the woods; a more covert approach for the Kitchen.

…

You've got to be shucking kidding me.

_An offering?!_

He's lost it.

I was with Stan, Lee and Dan just outside the Kitchen when Gally arrived with a posse of boys. I recognised a bunch of them as the Builders, and a handful of the Bricknicks, but also a couple of the Track-Hoes.

He didn't waste his time in declaring that people's – meaning Newt, though he didn't say it – judgement was clouded, and he was doing what was best. Thomas was being banished, and anyone who took his side would be banished, too.

Chuck, eyes wide, discreetly hurried away to update Newt and Minho.

And it all led up to the moment when we started to crowd to the Doors, because Gally had an unconscious Thomas dragged out. Only to drop the bombshell that he wasn't banishing anyone.

He's offering up Thomas - and Teresa, apparently - to the Grievers to placate them.

I can't quite believe he actually thinks it will work.

But then, it was something I learned about Gally a long time ago; the Glade is his home, and he takes threats to it very seriously.

I guess I just never expected him to lose it quite this much. He's never been hugely friendly or welcoming to me, and his default setting seems to be a mix of unimpressed and annoyed, but he's still been one of us; a scared teenager, doing what he can, and fighting to protect others in the Glade.

And this moment, as he argues with Teresa and demands that Thomas be tied up, I can't see that boy anymore.

Fear changes a person. For the better, or the worse.

But then Thomas is leaping up – apparently _not_ unconscious, then – and Frypan is leaping in with his kitchen knives. Minho draws his blade and rests it on Gally's shoulder. Newt pulls his machete and uses the handle to knock a boy down. Chuck jogs behind them, rattling with all his hastily packed emergency bags as he hands out weapons.

It's over in moments; the coup of the coup was well arranged while the sky was still dark and the smoke still thick.

And this is what it comes to.

No longer an offering. No longer a banishing, either.

A choice.

Which is what Thomas effectively says; "At least out there we have a choice". He believes his words wholeheartedly. "We can make it out of here. _I know that_."

And maybe it's that blind, unfailing belief, but Winston is the first to walk forwards. I'm filled with relief to see him go, and to see the other Slicers start to follow.

Dan is stood by my side, and we both follow Winston into the shadow of the Doors.

After him, Jeff steps out and approaches us.

And then others.

They line up with us; Dimitri, Clint and Jackson; Lee, Frankie, Stan and Scott; Tim and a small huddle of the Sloppers; Jack and Rob with more of the Track-Hoes. Even Eric and Henry – apologetic – leave the Builders and trudge into our pack.

Until finally, despite Thomas' plea, all Gally has left to say is, "Good luck against the Grievers."

And I want to believe that a part of him means it.

He isn't coming with us. He was never going to.

There's nothing left for us to do, but turn our backs.

This is the last time I'll enter this Maze.

I won't miss it.

…

Minho and Thomas lead us a little way in, through a handful of complicated turns, until we stop between two walls to divvy up the emergency packs and share out the weapons.

Some of them are already prepared; Dan has a pack, Rob's clutching a trowel, Winston, Frankie and Frypan all have knives in hand and Clint and Jeff both have their usual satchels over their shoulders. I have my bow, pressing across my back firmly alongside the scabbard of arrows, and my knife, now tucked into the side of my boot.

"Okay," Thomas says when everyone's settled with their load. "Let's move."

"Whoa, wait," Minho says, throwing an arm across Thomas' chest to stall him. "Shouldn't someone give a pep talk or something?"

Thomas raises an eyebrow.

"For what?" someone asks, sounding dubious. "Motivation?"

Looking a touch amused, Newt says, "Go ahead."

Minho falters, casts his eyes across the waiting group, and I bite my lip to hide a smirk.

"Be careful. Don't die," Minho says.

"Great," Newt responds. "We're all bloody inspired."

I elbow him. He ignores me.

Minho shoots him a withering look. But Thomas seems to take the idea more to heart.

"Okay, look," he says, and eyes turn to him. "It's running from here on. We've got to get to the Outer ring of Sector 7. Stick together; if you trip or get tired yell out. No one's getting left behind today."

This sends a ripple of energy through the group.

Minho, Thomas and Newt all share a look, and then Thomas nods. "Alright. Let's go."

…

The pace is slow, compared to my previous runs.

Not everyone can keep up with Minho or Thomas, so we have to move slow enough that Chuck can keep up with his shorter legs, and Newt can keep up with his limp – though it doesn't seem to hamper him too much when running.

Thomas sticks at the front, leading us all through a winding route, while Minho brings up the rear to keep everyone together.

I'm sure that we're taking the most direct route, but it still feels more like a Maze than ever; there's left turns, right turns, ones that have us almost doubling back, or running in huge square patterns to reach openings to the next part. And that's just the Narrows.

I remember bits of the Middle Ring from my brief stint as a Runner. None of the paths come to mind, but the views do; the massive, long stretches of ground with the S shaped walls and weeds and creepers growing through the cracks.

Everything about the Maze feels forgotten.

We have to pause in a part of the Middle Ring to let everyone have sips of water and catch their breath.

I don't feel too winded, and Thomas, Minho and Dimitri look just fine. Even Newt, despite favouring his leg now we're taking a break, doesn't look exhausted by the run.

Without wanting to, I can't help but wonder which wall he tried to jump off of.

Have we passed it? Was it somewhere else?

Did he run into the deepest parts of the Narrows, thinking it was far enough he wouldn't be found?

I push the thought away as harshly as I can, swallowing a mouthful of water before passing the flask on to Jack.

When everyone is breathing okay again, Thomas, Minho and Newt fall away from their little pack meeting and rally the group.

Chuck's cheeks are still flushed red and a few people are still breathing deep, but no one asks for more time.

We pick up again.

The Middle Ring grows exhausting just because of its repetitiveness. This is exactly what Newt was talking about, and it makes me wonder if I'd have been able to handle being a Runner longer than the couple of days I did it.

The wide S bends we have to weave through feel longer than football fields and the concrete is hot under the sun, hard against our boots and sneakers.

Tim trips on a weed at one point, and Clint stops to wrap the graze, but we're moving again right afterwards.

And then the Middle Ring gives way to the Outer Ring.

We're in Sector 4, if the huge, somewhat weathered away number painted on the wall is any indication.

Out here there are large expanses of level concrete. There are no weeds. Perfectly straight cracks grid the ground that we run over and towering blocks made from dully shining metal are secured to the walls with concrete blocks.

I can't work out why, but something about the grid of cracks feels recent, and I don't want to know what happened.

We pass through, into the next Sector. I stop watching for the numbers.

One sector looks like an abandoned industrial site; walls at all angles, some overhanging others. One looks like a courtyard with tunnels off of it and slabs of concrete just waiting to block the exits.

Sector 7 is a very wide, open space. A flat concrete floor, surrounded by towering walls, and neat rows of tall flat panels, each mounted on a central post. The panels are made from the same dull red metal used in Sector 4, and the edges are filed like blades.

Thomas leads us across two rows and then up the third. Halfway down that, he slips between a row and runs on, only to change course again four panels later and run right down to the end.

We all follow.

Finally he leads everyone into the shadow under an overhang, right next to an opening in the wall.

It's an opening you'd never even hope to see unless you somehow knew how to navigate to the back of this Sector.

Thomas peers around the wall, and turns back to us with a tight, grim expression.

"Is there a Griever?" Chuck asks tensely.

"Yeah," Thomas confirms in a rush of breath.

"Shoot," Chuck barely mutters.

For some reason, I find this wild understatement funny, and have to swallow a laugh.

Minho extracts something from his pack. "You take this, Chuck," he says. "Stay behind us." It's a metal canister, with wire stubs protruding from one end. I'm not really sure what it is, but I remember Newt saying something about a Griever part – speculating over what it could be.

Right now, a tracker of some kind seems accurate.

Chuck eyes the thing in his hand with trepidation, Thomas' hand on his shoulder. Teresa ties back her hair with a piece of twine.

"Just stay with me," she says.

Thomas turns to the group.

"Once we're through it'll activate and the door will open," he says. "We stay close, we stick together; we get through this. We get out now. Or we die trying."

Adrenaline surges through my blood. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and the almost healed cut on my palm throbs under the wrapped bandage.

The faces all around look just like how I imagine mine; fierce determination mixed with hope and fear.

Thomas stamps his spear into the ground and leads the charge around the wall.

There's a walkway up the middle, with drops on either side, and at the far end is flat wall – a dead end, were it not for the deep grooves either side that imply it moves. Everything is made of stone, weathered by the ages, just like the Maze. Stamped high on the wall, half worn away are the letters W.C.K.D.

There is one Griever at the end of the bridge-like walk.

It seems to have been patrolling. Or lying in wait. And it wheels on us the moment we fly around the corner into sight.

Its hackles rise; the ugly mouth snapping and shrieking, the tail lashing around and the legs clicking against the floor as it stamps.

It charges us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. I'm quite fond of the first scene between Newt and Eva. Its actually undergone quite a few alterations since its first imagining. I'll explain more specifically when we reach the actual end of the story, but for now I want to focus on little bit of it. Both of them are being a little careful here. They're both aware that they care about each other, and that the feelings behind that are far more than platonic. But they're also both aware that the recent events and imminent danger can easily mess with your mind and the last thing they want to do is misinterpret each other. But specifically on the 'I want you' parts: I tried to make this clear but obviously, as always, however you want to interpret it is up to you. In my mind, there's two main ways you can read an 'I want you'. It can be a sexual thing, or something a lot more fundamental. In this instance, I think of it as the latter. While attracted to one another physically, that's not the focus of this conversation. Its very much about wanting each other's presence indefinitely.
> 
> 2\. Who's a Casper fan? I always loved that line 'Can I keep you?'. It doesn't translate directly, but I think that's a possible influence in that Neva scene. I always took that as Casper genuinely liking Kat; not because he had a crush on her (though, yeah, that's a thing in its own right) but because he liked her company and her spirit - she was someone he simply enjoyed being around. And he doesn't literally want to keep her; not like a toy or a possession or a prisoner. He wanted to keep her in his life. But he asked her first, and it was always her choice. (and if you're not familiar with Casper - heck, you need to watch it :))
> 
> So anyway, I hope I have some happy readers after that :)
> 
> 3\. On a less happy note, Gally. I've said before, and I still believe that he's not 'evil'. He isn't remorseless, cruel and sadistic. He's terrified. He handles fear and grief very differently to people like Thomas or Eva (who each handle it differently themselves), and in Gally, it manifests as a far more unyielding, proactive personality. I've always tried to write him that way, because I think to write him as a cookie cutter villain is an insult to him. He's far more complex than that, and his actions come from the mind of someone who is scared that everything he's ever known is falling apart. Instead of letting go and facing his fears, he's holding onto the shreds of what he knows. That doesn't make him evil. But even without being evil, and even if other characters can understand his actions, there are still ones they cannot forgive.
> 
> 4\. Totally unrelated. Started an Internship fic. 55 pages in since Friday. We'll see how it goes; not sure yet if it'll actually all fit together enough to share, but fingers crossed. (To be fair, I think anything after this story is going to feel less detailed and faster paced XD).


	29. Escape is Earned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which escape comes with difficulty and at a price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: On screen deaths and general violence. Griever attack, folks.
> 
> AN: Briefly - because I didn't mention it in the last chapter - you may have noticed I included a particular quote from the book ("We're all bloody inspired"). I know a lot of people missed that in the film, and I'd have liked to see it personally, so I figured, why not add it in? Obviously those couple of lines you do recognise aren't mine :)
> 
> Enjoy...if you can.

Through surprise or brute force alone – I'm not sure which – Thomas, Minho and a handful of others are able to push their spears into the creature's underside when it rears above us, and force it around.

Then our backs are to the far end, but it was never going to be as simple as that.

The boys holding spears form a shield.

They jab at it incessantly; trying to keep its snapping mouth at bay as it flails around, trying to find an opening to attack.

The sharpened ends of the spears stab into the soft, fleshy parts of the Griever. The slimy mass flinches under the onslaught, but it pushes forward anyway.

The hits can't cause any lasting damage.

But its anger grows with each strike.

Its shining black tail flashes through the air above us, the metal legs whirring as it tries to find a gap, and the mouth lined with jagged teeth snapping wildly.

And then a spear pushes into its head, shoving its weight back and one of its spiked feet almost slips off the walkway.

It lashes around and _roars_ right at the closest boys – Thomas and Minho.

Thomas doesn't even blink.

"Push him!" He shouts, thrusting the spear right back into the Griever's head.

At least five more spears are right there and they start to herd the flailing creature to the edge where stone drops into a black chasm.

And then things go wrong very fast.

The lethal tail swings out, and everyone nearly flattens themselves to the ground as it sweeps over us.

I feel the rush of wind in its wake and as we all stand up again, the tail comes back. But it doesn't fly past. The grasping claw on the end snatches the back of Scott's shirt and hauls backwards.

The younger boy from the Kitchen doesn't even have time to scream as he's flung down the side of the bridge.

The shock of it makes my head spin.

I'm very quickly brought back to the present by a renewed shriek from the Griever, and I turn just in time to fling myself aside as one of its legs smashes down where I was.

Teresa's been knocked to her knees, but she wheels on the leg slashing hard with the knife in her hand at the joint.

There's a high pitched noise; the knife goes spinning out of her hand, catching the tracking canister that Chuck holds with a white fist.

The knife spirals down the chasm and the canister arcs through the air, hits the stone floor and begins to roll to the edge.

"The key!" Chuck shouts.

He races past me, as fast as he can go, ignoring Teresa's yelling for him.

_Brave kid_ , I can't help thinking, as he almost throws himself bodily down the gap.

Teresa's on his tail, so I whirl back around, jumping in to grab the end of a spear that's sliding through Jackson's fingers. He gives me a nod, eyes blown wide and with both our weight, we lean it back into the Griever.

I'm pressed in either side by Stan and Frankie, who also add their weight to Winston and Tim's spears.

We gain ground. The creature's legs strike out, grating against the stone.

A leg stabs in right next to Jackson, catching in a crack and holding.

I don't even think.

I let go of the spear, and Jackson's grip slides down to make up the loss of force. I duck out of the bow on my back and swing it around the metal leg, holding both ends tightly and _pulling_ with all my weight.

I can still hear the creak of the worn wood, even over the yells around me.

I fall back. I feel a tug in the base of my spine, and the cold stone through my torn jeans.

The bow flexes, but holds. It forces the standing pad off the metal appendage from the crack and it kicks back into the air. It catches at my sleeve as it goes; shredding it to ribbons. The bandage underneath saves my skin.

The monster's grappling for ground turns panicked and hopeless as the boys force its weight over the side.

It screams as it plummets – lost to the darkness long before we hear any kind of impact.

"Thomas, _Thomas_!"

Chuck's terror filled voice echoes in the stone chamber.

We're all breathing hard, stood at the edge of the walkway, wondering if it would jinx us to think 'we did it'. But heads whip towards the boy's calls.

He and Teresa race back to the group – the canister in hand – and in their wake are two more Grievers.

Of course.

The two of them run between Thomas and Newt, straight for the far end of the walk, and we all converge behind them.

I throw the bow back over my shoulder. It's no good right now.

The boys raise the spears again and I jump back in to help Jackson.

A third Griever joins the fray, scaling up the side of the stone passage.

They twist around one another, legs clicking and mouths screeching as they try to overpower us.

Behind our grouping, there's a strange, mechanical beeping sound, and the loud grating of stone against stone echoes through the chamber as the flat wall at the end rises up.

Three thick stone segments lift, one after the other, opening a square box at the end of the walkway, and at the end of that, a round hole.

"Teresa, GO!" Thomas yells, still up front with Minho, Frypan and Newt.

Teresa and Chuck run towards the hole in the wall.

Just feet from me, I hear a scream.

I whip around just in time to see Henry – Henry, who's only been here for three months – get his spear snatched away and bitten into three pieces in the mouth of a Griever. Henry is pulled forwards, off his feet as he's disarmed, and he's defenceless between the creatures' legs as they turn on him.

A tail stabs through his stomach. The colour drains from his face, a red stain blossoming across his shirt in the instant before he is flung back over the Grievers and down the chasm.

A scream traps in my throat and never makes it out.

I start forward, ducking under a tail and snatching the knife from my boot as I go. The metal is warm in my hand, and I grip it so tight my fingers turn white.

Its only when I've managed to run in close to the monster that I realise I'm not alone.

Eric, rage flooding his expression to cover the horror, has run in next to me, holding his spear like a javelin.

He jumps, when he's moved past the legs, and the creature turns its blind face to him the instant he buries the tipped end into its side. Eric's scream is angry, even as the Griever writhes, shaking him loose.

He collapses back onto the stone, and I can see the Griever lift its leg – go to turn on him.

I hear someone shout about numbers. I think someone yells my name.

I throw my weight against the mechanical leg, which doesn't move it at all. It just sends a shock of pain up my side – _bad idea_ – and one of my arrows clatters free to the ground, but it does get the creature's attention.

The minute I'm staring into the slimy face, the mouth bigger than my head and gaping into a black tunnel, saliva dripping between the shard-like teeth, terror rises like a wave inside me.

I hear my heart beating frantically, bruising itself on my ribs.

There's a pulsing in my head like white heat.

My legs go numb and I can't hear anything.

Fear has never frozen me before, but I've never stared death in the face quite like this, either.

It stretches forwards.

Something breaks free inside me.

I bring up my arm and ram the tiny knife right into the high point of its head.

It screams right into my face, but I think I've already gone deaf, because the sound echoes like it's from far away.

It flails, head twisting. For a second, I think it's trying to grab hold of my hair.

I feel my arm _pull_ from my shoulder.

_No._

_Hang on._

The Griever wrenches its head up. My leg – the one I bruised so long ago – gives out. There's a strange cracking sound somewhere behind me. Then there's an arm at my back, supporting me, and I bite down hard on my own lip, renewed strength rushing up my arm.

As the Griever lifts away, I pull down on the knife.

It takes all my strength to stop the blade kicking back. I just manage to keep dug it in as it tears two inches deep into the muscle where the brain might be.

And then I can't hold it any more.

_Very stupid_ , I think wanly.

Bleeding the same black substance I saw during the night time attack, it backs up, still shaking its head – more like there's a fly on it than a knife wound.

My leg is trembling and I'm a little light headed with how fast my heart is going.

Eric hauls me back into the group where Dan quickly lifts me up.

I grit my teeth and force myself to stand though the ground feels like it's at an angle. I think I've split my lip.

The whole thing can't have lasted longer than a minute.

Two Grievers are still trying their best, but as we back into the square tunnel, they're pressed close so they can both fit through.

A foot comes down on my fallen arrow, breaking it in half.

"What the hell was that?" Dan yells at me, even as he takes back his spear from Jack.

I can only just hear him over the muffling of my own head and all the other shouts around us.

"She saved my ass," Eric shouts at him. "It took Henry!"

"Almost lost my face, though," I mutter. It's a memory I won't be getting rid of any time soon.

He's right, it _was_ stupid.

But then…stupidity is sort of relative, isn't it?

Gally's arguably stupid for staying, but we're equally idiotic for deciding to risk life and limb in a very unfair fight against these things.

Before Dan can reply, there's a shout.

I suddenly realise Minho has been yelling numbers, because all at once, he's stopped. Instead, he's flattened under a creature that came from nowhere.

It pushes the other Grievers back and its legs stamp out to balance it. Only Minho's strength on the spear in his hands keeps the Griever from biting into him. It's closer than I ever got.

A number of boys shout his name.

Minho braces himself against the floor, the spear keeping the jaws apart as saliva coats the wood.

And then Jeff lets out a battle cry.

He lunges past Dan and stabs his own spear down into the Griever's head.

It roars at the pain, but it lifts off of Minho, who abandons his spear to crawl quickly out of the way.

Jeff hangs on, keeping the end of the spear buried tight in, even as the monster thrashes.

And finally, when it seems to realise Jeff isn't letting go, it bites deep into his leg and starts to _chew_.

Blood rushes down the canvas pants and his scream tears through the chaos.

_Oh God no._

The Griever retreats. Two more approach, flanking the first and quickly fill the gap.

The blood loss is quick. Jeff's grip on the spear loosens and then his screams die. He's gone from sight before he's dead.

"Jeff!" Winston shouts hopelessly after him.

_They were friends._

I was there before Winston arrived; I remember watching them form a friendship and hang out at the fire pit. It's easier to feel for him; focus on his grief rather than my own.

_How many more?_

Minho is hurriedly shouting out numbers again.

Chuck stands at the entrance to the hole, quickly trying to crowd everyone inside.

I push Eric ahead of me and Dan shoves me in front of him as we all pile into the darkness.

The blaring red light from the panel at the back fills the gloom.

Newt, Thomas and Minho back into the hole last, still armed with spears. One tries to tug Newt's away from him. The memory of how it pulled Henry into the air has my heart leaping into my throat but the spear splinters. Newt catches his balance as the end shears away in the Griever's mouth.

The red light from the back turns green.

There's a horrible grinding noise, and the Griever's pause, turning their heads in something that might have been confusion.

The first of the three stone segments comes crashing down, closing us in with three frantic monsters.

One turns for the dropped door, raising itself against it rather like a dog asking to be let out.

For some crazy reason, I find this funny, but I can't laugh or even smile.

The other two wheel on us. One shrieks, but before it can move, the second segment drops right on it.

The last one lunges.

Thomas flings his spear so hard I'm surprised he doesn't wrench his shoulder. It sails straight, like a javelin, and stabs into the last creature's head. Like before, it doesn't seem to do it lethal damage, but it makes it recoil just enough that it too is crushed as the final stone slab seals shut.

A sickly brown-green mess of slime and what could be organs and _I really don't want to think about it anymore_ splatters from beneath the wall.

There is a beat.

Everyone, gasping for breath, stunned and horrified, stands in the tiny hole.

And then the hole, too, closes on us with a spiralling mechanical shutter, leaving us in blackness.

…

We don't wait there long.

There's a hissing noise – this one quiet and passive, rather than something living – and then a clanking sound as a metal door at the back of the hole breaks its seal.

Teresa pushes.

Cold, clinical light pours in, a disorienting contrast from everything inside the Maze, from the natural sunlight of the Glade, the firelight or even the shadowy stone and the black of the Griever hole.

My hands tremble, and I realise I'm still holding my tiny knife.

I shove it back in my boot, trying not to look at the black stain on my torn sleeve.

The corridor beyond the door is wide, filled with neat lines of pipes. It's all grey, including the floor, and the walls curve very slightly as they continue in both directions.

There's a clanging noise as strobe lights power on one after the other above us, chasing the shadows down the corridor and around the curve, out of sight. They issue a low buzzing sound.

It's a maintenance tunnel.

_Maintenance for the Maze._

Like someone has stabbed me, I feel a prick of anger deep in my stomach, and it blossoms into something tight and coiled as we all file out of the hole.

Teresa and Chuck both look to Thomas, but his expression is as stunned and bewildered as the rest of us.

Next to me, Eric's face is ghost white. I imagine I probably don't look much better.

None of us do.

Winston looks ragged, Stan is shaking and Jack's eyes are huge and round. Jackson is pale and Frankie is bleeding. That's just the start.

My eyes seek out Newt. He's no better than the rest; grime and black blood in his hair and smudged across his skin. His shirt is far from white and there's a shuttered look in his eyes. But he spots me, too, and I can see a fragment of the resolve he had just hours ago, back in the hut, return.

"Which way?" Chuck asks. His voice cracks.

Thomas gives a helpless, slow shrug.

But when no one moves, he takes a breath and starts walking.

…

"Seriously?"

And honestly, I'm with Fry.

Three years, banishings, Box Days, injuries, Griever attacks and more deaths than I can count…and it ends with this.

A glowing green EXIT sign above a door.

They must enjoy sick irony.

_Bastards._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. So this was a very busy, fast paced chapter. The next one does slow down in this regard because - and you can cheer when you feel like it - my exposition chapter is up next. Finally getting some answers! I expect there'll be a decent handful of notes after that. And yes, more deaths. Sad, but also necessary.
> 
> 2\. In terms of the scene itself, I bet no one can even guess how many times I watched, rewatched, paused, rewound and literally walked through frame-by-frame just this scene of the movie. I wanted it to be accurate. So, as much as possible and barring Eva's contributions and telling of it, everything you read should fit to what you see without too many deviations. That includes Scott and Henry's deaths and even the Griever near the end who rears up against the wall like a dog (I did not make that up). So it took a while to write, just because of how mad I am.
> 
> 3\. Eva's bow. I'd like to have actually used it more here, because she made it herself and it is an effective (if not amazing or accurate) weapon, but it just didn't pan out that way. Although she made the bow, she has always been more comfortable with knives, so it makes sense, both for her and in the situation that she'd turn to that tiny knife she found before she even saw the Glade. I like that it kind of comes a full circle in that way. But also, its previously been made clear that the bow can have dodgy aim. In such a tight space, with Gladers moving so fast, she wouldn't risk hitting one of them. Sadly, that lines up with life; we do things, make plans and arrangements and they don't always pan out. So I hope this reasoning makes sense, even if I'd have liked to feature the arrows more.
> 
> 4\. On Eva herself. All through this, even when she had no idea who she was, there have been hints at how she reacts to fear and being afraid, but I feel I can expand a bit on it now. She armed herself within moments of waking up, she found a weapon in a strange world whilst being chased. She'd rather avoid a situation and keep her distance than confront it (running from Justin), but when pushed, she does react offensively (spiking Alby). I wrote Eva as someone who is able to use her fear; being scared motivates her. It pushes her to be protective (pushing Newt away from the beam), calm (with Dimitri in the Maze) and even violent (the bow and the knife against Grievers). Fear brings out some of the best and worst in her, which is kind of important to who she is (and why it shakes her so much when she freezes, because its not something she's used to). Its also an underlying theme of this story in its entirety - we are defined by fear. WCKD know that; its why those kids are even there. And as readers, we know that. I think its an important part of both this fanfiction and the source material itself, the idea that being truly afraid can make you someone that maybe you didn't even know you could be.
> 
> 5\. This is a moment I loved in the film. That moment they break out of the holding cell into the maintenance tunnel. Its such a shift of worlds and you can see that change so distinctly, right on the threshold of that door - the grunge, weathering, darkness and decay for this clinical grey walkway with the pristine pipes, cold strobe lights and buzzing of electrics. The textures and feel shift so sharply and it's just really well done, I thought. Eva just doesn't think this part over as much as I do. And I can't really blame her. She almost died. Again. And then that last part - the Exit sign. I think I actually laughed when I first saw it. That is such cruel irony and so fitting in how wildly out of place it is. So yep; I loved those moments. Probably for all the wrong reasons.
> 
> 6\. Does anyone out there have a fancasting for Eva? I've been trying to find someone who I can see as her, but so far no luck. If I can find someone, I'd love to have a go at making some gifsets or even a video for this fic (or if anyone with skills in this area feels like it, I'd love to see!)
> 
> I think there's only a couple of chapters left...


	30. The Eden Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are answers, if not all of them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the delay on this one, guys! I had a manic weekend of handling some very fizzy horses at the stables and then some archery and throwing knives and by the time I got back, I was a bit too shattered to get this posted. So here it is now :) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> And I think we've just got two chapters after this, folks!
> 
> NOTE: End Notes are in the story text due to there being too many for the site. Sorry about that!

This isn't right.

There are alarms whirring on the walls, spinning with orange light and making dull whooping noises. Glass panels everywhere are shattered, fragments littering the floor and sparkling under the fluorescent blue lighting. There's still smoke gathered near the ceiling.

Bodies are scattered everywhere.

Most of them wear white lab coats. There's men and women; ones as young as their mid twenties and ones bordering on their late fifties.

They all died of gunshot wounds.

Most of them lay randomly beyond what's left of the glass doors at the end, but a couple sit in the hallway. One propped on the left; blood smeared across the wall to mark where he fell.

Two bodies lay, covered, on tables behind a broken window.

Blood stains the white sheets; a dark skinned arm hangs limply in view on the left table, and a pair of pale, cut up feet show on the right.

I can't identify them, but somehow there's a sickening feeling of familiarity in the scene. Maybe I knew them once. Gladers.

Closer to the window, Newt gently ushers Minho onwards.

I clench my eyes closed, feel my balance waver.

Even after all of this, seeing so much death still makes me feel nauseous.

A part of me hopes I'll get used to it. A part of me hopes I never will.

A hand brushes against my back, and I don't have to open my eyes to know its Newt. I don't have to hear him speak, either, to know he's concerned.

I just nod, forcing my eyes open again.

_I'm fine. I have to be._

His eyes are dark and sombre as he nods back at me then retreats. He doesn't coddle me – none of the boys ever really have – and I'm glad that hasn't changed.

He heads towards Thomas and Minho, who stand over another body.

This one has no coat; he's dressed in dark gear. Fingerless gloves, a pocketed sweater with a scarf-like hood, a small canvas pack and combat boots.

A handgun still rests in his cold, slack fingers. Shiny bullets litter the floor around him between the shattered pieces of glass.

Something inside me jolts.

Minho slides the gun away under his boot.

The shards crunch underfoot as Thomas leads us through the doors into a wide room.

There's a long table down the middle; glowing panels around the edges and some kind of walkway down the centre lined with glass-like screens. Chairs mounted on wheels are left at strange angles and the sheets of transparent technology – monitors – flicker with glowing blue images and words. More computers line the walls; yet more screens flickering through images. Smoke still collects above us, slowly being siphoned through the vents and a shower of golden sparks issue from a pipe on the ceiling that's come apart, revealing a lot of fried cabling. The main lights appear to have blown and the room is lit from strobe lights in the walls and various computer panels.

_Back up generator._

It strikes me that this happens a lot; some voice in my head that sounds like me, telling me things that sound right without my having any memory or recollection of why.

 _Things I used to know_ , I think _. I was right; they can't really erase everything that makes a person who they are._

But I can't focus on that now, so I throw the thought aside.

Bodies lie across the black floor; slumped in corners, against the tables or sprawled as though the people had tried to run. Their coats display the red blood stains like badges; some of bravery, others of cowardice.

Were you shot in the front as you faced the gun or the back as you ran away?

We slowly spread out.

I leave Eric and Dan and slowly make my way over to the far side, eyes roving over monitors. I'm glad that I can walk normally again, even if I feel drained and off kilter.

At the back of the room, I falter when I spot another body – another in the dark clothing that so clearly doesn't belong here.

I veer around it, my eyes instead caught by the soft glow of one of the monitors. I wheel around one of the abandoned chairs and drop into it at the desk.

"Eva?" Eric's voice trembles behind me. "What are you doing?"

_I'm not sure._

But it's time for some answers.

There's a whole load of touch pads and scrolling bars, but it doesn't feel daunting. I don't recognise these screens, the images on them, or anything about this place, but something about the computers themselves rings the echo of a bell in my head.

I feel like I know this. Technology.

The screen shows brain scans.

The name in the top corner says: H E N R Y.

My eyes sting and I hear Eric inhale sharply over my shoulder.

My fingers fly to a curling arrow in the lower corner and I press it several times.

The screen flicks through a handful of displays – a long document of text, what looks like a form, something that looks more like shorthand notes, Henry's face, and then I'm left with a black screen and just one window in the centre titled:

G R O U P – A

Tabs down the side read: NAME, AGE, SUBJECT, BLOOD TYPE and IMMUNE but in the window itself is a list of names.

Alby, Ben, Billy, Chuck, Clint, Dan, Dave, Dimitri...

All of us.

I find my own name and press on it with my fingers.

For the first time, I can see a picture of myself, not distorted by dents in a pan or the curve of a spoon.

Fair skin that's since tinted under the Glade sun; slightly elfin, simple features and large eyes – light grey, as Newt said - surrounded with brown lashes that match a tumble of milk chocolate coloured waves of hair. It looked far better in this headshot than I'm sure it does now, in its tangled braid. In the photograph – grainy as it is – I'm wearing what looks like a loose white t-shirt and my eyes – scared and wary but angry in a way I feel disconnected from – reflect something broken on the inside.

"Shuck…" Eric breathes next to me.

I press my fingers to the tab at the top of the box. I don't need to look at this version of myself anymore to know we're no longer the same person.

I land on the same form I thought I saw on Henry's file.

E V A

18

C A U C A S I A N

G R E Y

B R U N E T T E

5’ 2”

O- [UNIVERSAL DONOR]

I M M U N E

There's more – the data fields go on, outlining my weight, body type, dominant hand, average blood pressure, typical temperature and several other things I don't recognise but I think have to do with parts of the brain.

I have to move faster, so I press on the next tab.

The wall of text is too much to fully absorb, but I get pieces of it.

…father was an engineer, mother a doctor…lived in the country…stable home life…Grandfather was a licensed hunter…mother had THE FLARE…father sectioned, daughter inducted to W.C.K.D programme…knife skills shown early on…very angry at being taken…considered dangerous…sedation required during early days…scalpel incident required solitary…

I stop reading, my mind whirling as it processes.

It seems to be an overview of my early life – my parents and where I grew up, and how I came to W.C.K.D – then a summary of my life after being taken, but before the Maze.

But my father was an engineer? Though it does explain a few things; the water pipe repairs being just one of them. And I needed sedating? And what is a _scalpel incident_?

Something makes a fuzzy crackling sound behind us, and we both look up.

A huge screen on the far side of the room has come to life, and an aging blonde woman in the picture begins to speak. Slowly, the others move to gather before it.

Eric hesitates at my shoulder, and then slowly follows them. I turn back to the computer.

Next tab. Quickly.

The page of notes appears.

E V A - (Subject: B36)

Joined the test programme at the age of 14. In retrospect, acquiring her at a younger age would have yielded better results and ensured greater compliance, as with other subjects.

Subject shows promise with quick thinking and resourcefulness in early tests.

INCIDENT – Subject attacked lab worker [ID-CLASSIFIED] during a routine health inspection. Used a scalpel near to hand, caused significant blood loss and was able to injure a second responder [ID-20556] before being restrained. Report filed.

Subject shows a preference for evasion, where possible, in threatening situations. Can be pushed to violence with motivators such as protectiveness or when angered or upset sufficiently.

Subject becoming more volatile. Unable to accurately predict reactions to stimuli. Still very angry with her situation and WCKD.

INCIDENT – Subject attacked a lab worker [ID-20579] during pre-inspection sedation. Was able to disarm worker through misdirection and injected him with sedative. Was restrained immediately after by second responders. Report filed. Subject labelled Dangerous.

INCIDENT – Subject rewired a keypad and unlocked her unit door. A search revealed no hidden equipment to have assisted with the task. Deduced that Subject did the rewiring manually. Must in future be placed in cell units with external keypad access only.

My mind spins wildly.

_Was I this person?_

I remember thinking so long ago that no one should have to forget who they are…but now, like in moments before…I'm not sure I want to remember.

I can't imagine wanting to attack anyone. This doesn't feel like me, this person so full of anger… and yet…

I don't want to think of what I could still be driven to.

I scroll through the notes. There are more pieces from the years I apparently spent in the compound, being put to different fear and stress tests. They tested my reactions to being chased, to being ambushed, to being shouted at, hit, left in a burning room, left in a freezing room, electrically shocked, dropped from heights, drowned…

The memory surges up, fierce and unwanted; the way I felt like I'd been drowning just moments before waking up in the Box that carried me to the Glade.

All tests of my fear.

_Why?_

And then there are notes from my time inside the Maze.

Subject appears to be fearful of all current Subjects [DUB: Gladers]. Has already armed herself and used evasion/distraction tactics. Childhood imprints remain – tree climbing within minutes of The SWIPE.

Subject forming friendships with Gladers. ZART, SIGGY [DUB: Frypan], NEWT.

Initial responses – No apparent threat to Subject. Accepted into group. No early signs of excessive mistrust or attraction.

I scroll further. It's the weirdest sensation to be reading about tiny fragments of my time in the Glade, knowing I was being monitored the entire time.

DATA LEAK – Ruled INSUFFICIENT. Subject A17 [JUSTIN] STUNG. JUSTIN relayed information to subject pertaining to T H E – E D E N – S W I T C H before being eliminated.

Potential relationship evolving between subject and NEWT. CAM1.

I'm appalled when I read it, but I press over where it says CAM1 anyway, driven by some morbid curiosity.

The video clip in the box that pops up was recorded through branches. Justin lies on the grass, bleeding and wild as a bunch of boys restrain him, and not far off, Newt stands in front of me. I'm pale and my eyes are blown wide as they look up at him. As I watch, his hands move away from my face and gently circle my wrists, turning them over until the scratches come into view.

I close the box. My breathing catches in my throat.

If they have that, then they have…

And I don't have to scroll long to find it.

Confirmed relationship between Subject and NEWT. CAM2.

This pop up box barely has a chance to show me the interior of the Medi Tent, the day Newt got his head injury, and the way he grasps my wrist to pull me back before I shut it.

I don't want that memory through anyone's eyes but my own.

But the notes are still there.

Confirmed relationship between Subject and NEWT. CAM2. Slow evolution of relationship and development of attraction on both sides; seen to be exclusive and consensual.

And below it:

Subject shows willingness to put herself in harms way to protect others, specifically NEWT. CAM3.

_That'll be the day the beam swung loose, then._

I give up on the notes. It's basically just a rehashing of my life through the eyes of a stranger. The woman in the video across the room is still talking, but I feel like I'm running out of time.

I scroll back up to words that seem important. " _Adam and Eve were the first two people in the Garden of Eden,_ " Newt said months ago. I press on the words, opening another box.

T H E – E D E N – S W I T C H

Pertains to Subjects A36 – A D A M and B36 – E V A

Introduction of T E R E S A and A R I S to groups A and B respectively are an unknown variable. One or both VALUABLE subjects could be at risk in gender-opposite environments.

RISK ASSESSMENT

EDEN SWITCH AUTHORISATION

Subjects A D A M and E V A will be swapped over as a test run, to judge acceptance of opposite genders within the environment.

A36 and B36 both Classified DANGEROUS. Used within the SWITCH programme to monitor under extreme variables.

All reactions and threats to be monitored and documented.

Well, at least I know what Justin was screaming about after he got stung.

I was a test within a test – not for me – for the boys. Teresa was a valuable player within the Maze; how I'm not certain, but she was considered valuable. The creators couldn't risk just sending her up. It was an _unknown variable_. What if the boys freaked out? Attacked her? Banished her?

So they sent me instead.

Someone who's life could be forfeit to provide assurances. And by me being - apparently - very much a loose cannon, if _I_ wasn't attacked or banished, Teresa would be more than fine.

And Adam – whoever he is, or was – was sent somewhere else.

_To another Maze._

No time for that thought right now. There's one more thing I need to look for. I go back through my file to find the words and then press on them, opening the new box and skim read.

T H E – F L A R E.

A virus that attacks the brain… insanity, fits of violence, cannibalism… no cure. Man-made…released after the Scorch…wiping out the human population…

I suppose that could explain all the brain scans.

Only a small, tiny percentage of the human race is naturally immune to it – children of the new genera- _Whoa. Hold on._

Fingers flying now and heart pounding, I backtrack to my profile form on the monitor.

There, beneath my blood type – universal donor – I M M U N E.

Something isn't right, though.

I move quickly, I can still hear the woman in the video talking; drawing out her words. I go back to the list of names under G R O U P – A. I press the tab on the side that says IMMUNE and hold my breath.

The names flicker, and when they reappear, some have been reordered. Next to each is now a new word.

A L B Y – IMMUNE

B E N – IMMUNE

B I L L Y - IMMUNE

C H U C K – IMMUNE

The list goes on, but I scroll past all the immunes, something getting heavier in my chest when I pass N I C K and haven't seen Newt's name.

And then there it is.

Right between Z A R T – IMMUNE and D A V E – CONTROL.

N E W T - COMPROMISED.

_What?_

I click on Newt's file and hurry to his form before his picture has a chance to load up.

N E W T

19

C A U C A S I A N

B R O W N

B L O N D E

5’ 10”

A-

C O M P R O M I S E D

_How is that right?_

The woman in the video has stopped talking. I barely registered the bang of a gunshot through the feed.

So I find his page of notes and scroll past the years of observations – his struggle with being a Runner, the attempted suicide, the visible respect the other Gladers develop for him and how they tracked his apparent growing affection for me – because _weird_.

And I stop on a note marked COMPROMISED SUBJECT.

Sounds right.

Subject may have been cross contaminated during an accidental explosion. Current status as a CONTROL subject UNKNOWN. CAM19.

I press my fingers to it.

And it's the day the kitchen blew up.

How they got a camera feed through the branches and straw in the roof of the hut I couldn't tell, but the grainy video is only slightly blurred by the thick smoke. I can easily see myself leaning forward, knelt in the glass and soot next to Newt and pressing my sweater to the side of his head with my own bleeding hand.

And it _clicks_.

"Idiots," I mutter, unable to hold it back.

_Antibodies travel in the blood._

They were studying the _wrong thing_. They should have been testing our blood; not our brains. Or at least both.

Of course, just a slight mixing of blood like there was back in the wrecked Kitchen wouldn't be enough to pass on antibodies, but in terms of science, it's enough to damage a control test.

Which is what Newt is. Was.

He's not immune.

He was included in the Maze alongside Immune teenagers as a control variable.

* * *

 **INFO**  
  
So much I want to expand on here. Here we go...  
  
1\. The bodies under the sheet were actually said (I believe its in the movie commentary) to be Alby and Ben's bodies. There's no way Eva could know that for sure, but when I heard it, I just loved the kind of gravity that knowledge brought to that moment when they walked past the screens.  
  
2\. Answers, whoohoo! Anyway, this whole part of the movie went past too quick for me to really dig into this. I've tried to get across all the relevant information, as well as that bit extra without making it drag on so much. The idea is that Eva discovered all this while the video was playing, so - like the battle scene - there was a lot of work and rewatching going on as I tried to pace out what Eva could read in the time she had. I have a couple of 'extended' versions of this scene, half formed that I had to ditch because she just couldn't have gone through that all before Ava shoots herself. And that's all I'll say on pacing.  
  
3\. The Eden Switch. So, hopefully it's clear, but this was the name (like a code name) of one of their tests within the test. Eva was originally intended as a Group B subject, but as the groups formed closely knitted familial ties over the years they were monitored, The WCKD scientists worried a little about how Teresa and Aris might be received - people are often afraid of what's new. So Eva and Adam were chosen, mainly because of their pre-Swipe personalities (Adam's not being canon) to test the situation they'd be going into. The change would have been arranged at least a couple of years in - only when WCKD thought there may be issues putting a female in a male environment and vice versa, but it had to happen long enough before they planned for Thomas/Rachel to arrive that they could properly document the longer-term reactions. The main thing here is that Teresa would be a valuable piece later on. Eva's life doesn't much matter to them in the long run.  
  
4\. Which leads us onto Eva's past. May be some spoilers for the potential sequel here. Covering them now, because there's no guarantee this will come out properly later. You are welcome to skip. She was chosen specifically because the version of her WCKD had been dealing with for 4 years was a very angry and violent person. By throwing in someone who was dangerous and capable, WCKD had the best assurance possible that Teresa would be safe if Eva was. Only...they made a bit of a mistake. They took away her memories. She was so angry because she'd been torn away from her family, scared because she'd endured all the tests. Without those memories, she had no reason to be fueled by that anymore. So the Eva in the Glade was able to return to the person she would have been growing up and not the girl that WCKD kept locked up. It probably confused them and wrecked their test, which is a theory I quite like. With a doctor for a mother, an engineer for a father and a grandparent who taught her to use knives, guns and all manner of weapons...hopefully you can see where those remnants of her past life have cropped up. She has no recollection of them, but muscles remember where a mind doesn't. Spoilers over.  
  
4\. And this is where it intersects with an overarching theme for the story. What makes a person who they are? If you take away someone's memories, do you take who they are - do you change it? I'm hoping that you've picked up in at least a couple of places that Eva is a bit afraid of the person she used to be. She knows how to make a bow, to hold knives and use a gun and realising that these are things she must have known before have scared her. And now she's found her file on the computer, and she's read about this version of her who was a far more deadly person - attacking people to kill, where she's been unable to harm a rabbit. Did losing her memories really change her? But then, consider, if someone killed Newt, or Fry, or if someone took her away from them...what do you think she'd be capable of?  
  
This is a question I love, and that I've had in mind from very early on but couldn't bring up until now (because it sort of requires this insight into the person she used to be). And there's two ways you could answer it. So I'll just leave it here as a question. If you have some thoughts on it, I would honestly love to hear them.  
  
5\. The Kitchen Explosion. I told you I'd keep bringing this chapter up when it was relevant. So, remember back to then - Eva cutting her hand and then using that hand to try to stop Newt's bleeding. Newt getting cut up, not just getting a concussion. All these were very carefully planned, very necessary events. As Eva states, just having blood run together like that won't pass on antibodies (though it can pass other stuff and its really not advisable). But as she also says, thanks to the grainy camera footage, it would have been hard to tell exactly the extent of the 'contamination' and it therefore makes Newt useless as a control subject. It doesn't make him immune. He's still very much at risk. But the fact that he's been compromised is enough for Eva to start looking for answers. More on that in the next chapters.  
  
6\. How Viruses work. Okay, I need to touch on this because its the one thing that does annoy me (maybe because I do love science and biology myself). And maybe the books bullshit this in a way that makes some form of sense, but its going to have to be some incredible BS to make me believe it. Viruses do not 'live' in the brain, the eyeball, the liver or whatever the hell else. Viruses act on various parts of a body. It is antibodies in the BLOOD that work against them. Brain scans of Immune kids are not going to tell you anything about how to create a cure because these kids already have blood carrying antibodies that mean they're already capable of fighting the virus. The only way brain scans might help is to monitor the differences between an immune kid and a control kid, which would also only be useful if you deliberately gave both kids the Flare in the first place - not kept them in a safe Maze isolated from it. If you have controls and immunes and no one actually has the Flare...exactly what are you trying to study? Yeah, I know they're looking at Killzones and spikes in brain activity because apparently the more you think, the faster the Flare spreads - but they have no Flare in any of the Gladers, so this is an entirely moot experiment.  
  
So, Blood. Immunes don't have magic brains, they have antibodies - naturally occuring ones - in their blood. Its these that fight off viruses. But its understandable why Dashner couldn't easily take this route (or he simply didn't look into viral science); because we create vaccines against viruses all the time and it would make the Flare a whole lot less of an issue. But I'll shut up here because there's more on this to come. (and as I said, maybe the books do have a better explanation for their magic virus, but the one in the movie makes very little sense when you actually use logic, so I went with that).  
  
Aaaand, I think I'm done. Any questions about this, please ask away - I did have to condense a fair bit, so I appreciate that some may not make as much sense as I'd hoped. But if you did get it, I'd love to hear that, too!


	31. In the World Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Maze is left behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: A bit later than planned again - it's been a seriously stressful day. My dog was spayed and I now have a very quiet and sorry-for-herself Dalmatian sleeping off her anaesthetic with 10 days of recovery to go. Fun times. But I hope you enjoy this chapter. Very nearly over now!
> 
> In other news, I hope to have the first one shot companion story to this posted before this is over, so keep an eye out for that :)
> 
> This chapter picks up directly where the last left off.

No sooner has this piece of information sunk into my head, there's another alarm. A loud hissing sound accompanies it to announce the opening of a massive industrial door at the far end of the room.

Heads all turn towards it, and I quickly exit Newt's file on the monitor and hurry to join the others.

At the end of the concrete tunnel is a sliver of a bright, white light.

"Is it over?" Chuck asks, looking between the light and Thomas, who looks beyond shell-shocked.

"She said we were important," Newt says, sounding perplexed.

I'll have to get someone to tell me what that video was all about.

"What are we supposed to do now?"

But Thomas looks like he's all out of answers for the day. "I don't know," he says, and his voice is so cracked it barely comes out. But his eyes fix on the tunnel, finding something there to ground him. "Let's get out of here."

But apparently, that's still too easy.

"No."

The voice makes everyone start. I feel Stan grab my shredded sleeve and tug me further into the midst of the group.

Gally stands in the middle of the room.

How in the world did he even get here? There was the Maze, and the Grievers, not to mention the code…but somehow, he's standing in front of us.

He looks ready to break down; eyes glassy, covered in scratches and grazes and lines of dirt. And in his hand, trembling so much I can hear it rattle, is the gun that Minho kicked away from the dead man in the hallway.

"Gally?" Thomas asks, stunned.

Teresa places a hand on his chest, halting his forward movement.

"Don't," she says. "He's been stung."

_What?_

But when I look back at him, I realise she's right. They aren't lines of dirt on his neck – they're veins rising under the skin, running black with poison.

_Shit._

He drops a familiar looking canister to the ground, and it rolls under a chair.

He grappled with a Griever to get that, so he could follow us here.

Thomas tries to talk him down, despite his clear fear of the ready weapon. But Gally cannot be reasoned with. He could barely be reasoned with while sane; the chances of it now; the Changing coursing through his veins, are even slimmer.

Newt's eyes flick from Gally's face to the quaking gun in his hand as he lifts it to point at Thomas. His expression is wary and almost a little piteous. He knows Gally is beyond help right now, and having worked with him for three years, it must be a hard thing to face like this.

Just in front of me, I see Minho very quietly grip the spear that Lee's still holding.

And without looking away from Gally, or reacting at all, Lee just as quietly lets it go. I find myself a touch impressed by Lee's quick reading of the situation.

Not even a minute goes by before the world changes.

The gun goes off. Glass shatters. Chuck leaps in front of Thomas at the last moment. Minho launches the spear. There's a scream. Everyone ducks.

My ears ring.

We slowly stand up.

Gally can't breathe around the pole through the top of his chest.

He buckles to his knees. The gun clatters to the floor. Gally keels over after it, something unfamiliar in his eyes as they slowly dim.

My breathing is uneven and my eyes catch Newt's as he looks briefly over at me.

And then it's Chuck on the floor, his shirt fast soaking through with blood.

I can't even hear Thomas calling to him, trying to assure him as he shakes; lowering them both to the ground. All Chuck wanted was a big brother; a best friend. And it was easy to see Thomas genuinely adored the kid, and now they've both lost something irreplaceable.

My eyes burn, but I don't blink as tears flood them and race down my face. The paths they leave are searing hot on my skin. I feel like someone's tied my heart into a knot.

Chuck becomes a dead weight in Thomas' arms. His eyes stare outward. His last words were a heartfelt, choked, ' _Thank you_ '.

Thomas breaks apart.

The grief is all consuming.

Chuck is gone. Just…gone.

He was twelve years old.

_He'll only ever be twelve years old._

…

I'm a little fuzzy on the moments when the door at the end of the tunnel opens. One moment _Chuck is dead_ and the next, we're being herded like sheep towards the huge door which has opened from a sliver of light into a gaping square gap in the cement walls.

There's a breeze outside – a real, natural draft of fresh air that sends sand swirling up off the ground and catches in my clothes.

I look back over my shoulder.

The rescuers – is that what they are? – are dressed in dark gear, combat boots and headscarves that hide their features from us, and from the elements. Four of them push us on, up the tunnel to the light. Three of them are needed to move Thomas from Chuck's body.

A hand catches mine and I look around. Newt has run around Minho and he just gives me the briefest of glances before running on again. I grip his hand tightly and push myself to keep up. One of the men in dark clothing, a rifle jostling at his back, presses his hand to Newt's shoulder, encouraging him on. Another of the men does the same to Stan and Frankie.

The world outside is foreign.

We burst into the light, and my vision swims white – just like it did the first time the doors opened onto the Box when I arrived in the Glade.

Only Newt's grip on my hand keeps me from collapsing at the sudden blindness.

There's a loud buffeting noise that swallows up everything around; I can't hear anything else over it.

Newt stops, and I find my balance against him, rubbing at my eyes with my free hand until shapes and colours start to form.

I haven't been this close to Newt since this morning. It seems like such a long time ago now. I woke up in his hammock, watching him sharpen his machete, and since then I've been too busy surviving to think of anything else.

But now, I can find it in me to be relieved that he's still alive.

He looks exhausted and cut up, as we all do, and he's squinting in the light. His grip on my hand is tight, and I'm oddly grateful for the way it grounds me.

We're in some kind of wasteland; sand dunes taller than the trees in the Glade, dry air and the hazy shapes of shacks and other buildings in the distance. The tunnel we came out of is built into an enormous curved wall, weathered smooth by the blowing grit. It spreads as far as I can see, and reaches into the sky.

One of the men starts to herd us on, and we're still trying to adjust to this…desert…we've stepped into. Minho shrugs off the person who tries to move him on with an unyielding look that says he shouldn't try it again.

He stares into the black tunnel until shadows move, and I can spot Thomas being dragged out after us.

The men start pushing us on again, and this time, we move. Even Minho.

A short distance away, the rotor blades whirring already, a black helicopter sits; the source of the deafening sound of pummelled air. We all run for it.

I let go of Newt to grab the handle on the side and I haul myself up.

Stan, Frypan, Eric, Frankie and Dan are all huddled on the far side in a row, hanging onto loose straps or the nearest hand rails, trying to leave as much space as possible.

Lee, Tim, Clint, Jack and Winston all file in right after Newt pulls himself inside, and they fall into spaces along the back.

More of us leap in; Jackson, Dimitri, Rob and three boys I never really got to know. Minho and Teresa bring up the rear, and I'm not sure how we're all going to fit.

_Twenty one survivors in total._

I'm as angry about that word as I am thankful for it. _Survivors_.

Thomas is almost thrown in last, and the door hauled up the side of the helicopter, slamming shut before he can try to escape.

But he looks too broken to escape.

His hands curl tight around something, and they shake as I hear the engine fire up properly. Newt lays a steadying hand on his shoulder, but Thomas can barely nod in acknowledgement of it. Tear tracks run through the grime on his face.

"You guys alright?"

One of the men sits in the only space we don't occupy in the hull of the helicopter. He's pulled down his headscarf and sounds just a little winded as he reaches for a water canteen.

"Don't worry; you're safe now."

He gives the pilot a thumbs up.

Teresa doesn't look convinced as she grabs a strap to hold on.

Its only exhaustion that stops me from scoffing out loud.

_Safe?_

_I'm starting to think nowhere is._

…

We lift into the air, sand swirling around us until the desert drops away and we're climbing higher than the weathered walls.

Newt leans over to the side window and I follow. Minho leans across Thomas, who looks up, too. Everyone crowds in behind us.

Stamped and half worn away on one of the Stone structural pieces that help to segment sections of the outer Maze is:

W.C.K.D

SITE A

And as we rise higher, thousands of reflective panels come into view, shining in the blinding sunlight between rows of pipes, aerials and vents.

Solar panels.

To power the ever changing Maze.

But an even more powerful sight is when it takes shape below us.

The circle with all its tiny pathways and interlocking walls; the wide Sectors, the long, winding Middle Ring and the intricate, cramped Narrows that make up the Maze itself and then…

Then the square Glade, right in the centre; green and vibrant surrounded by the cold stone. From this height, it's not even possible to see the huts of Homestead or the box platform. It's just possible to see the woodland that takes up a diagonal half, and the field that spreads over the other.

It doesn't look like a big enough enclosure for a pet rabbit.

But some of these boys lived there for _three years_.

Newt sinks down, away from the window. His expression is full of a kind of numb disbelief and there's something haunting in his eyes.

I know there's nothing I can say to help, so I just take his hand again, gripping tightly and rest my head against his shoulder. I don't know if it's him shaking, or me.

It hurts, in the strangest way, to quite literally see that your whole world is so small.

It hurts, to know that every part of it was controlled, monitored and designed to bring out your fears.

It hurts, to realise that while it was more prison than home, it was all we had. And having no home, no memories of anything before makes me more scared than staring a Griever in the face.

_Who am I now?_

_I don't know._

_Where do I go now?_

_I don't know._

_I don't know how to exist in this world._

My breathing rushes, goes shallow and I start to feel light headed. The sound of the helicopter blades pounds through my skull.

It's definitely me shaking now.

I can't breathe properly. The air is stifling.

The helicopter really does seem too small for so many survivors.

_Did they expect less?_

_Maybe._

_Were more of us supposed to die?_

_Probably._

My voice doesn't work. There's a weight sitting on my chest; pressing and clamping like a vice around my lungs.

_Was I meant to die?_

My vision dances, toying with consciousness.

_You've got to breathe._

_I'm talking to myself. In my head. Not normal._

My heart races. I hear the pounding in my ears and feel it behind my eyes.

_You're going to black out._

_No. I'm not. Breathe._

_._

_._

_I can't._

The panic rushes in like a wave. I feel the world tilt behind my eyes.

Newt's fingers squeeze around mine.

His voice is a bare whisper as he murmurs, "Shhhh," against my hair.

The wave crashes, breaking apart.

I drag in a long breath and feel tears sting at my eyes with relief. I bite them back – I'm fed up of crying today – and focus on my own, slowing breaths. My heart gradually starts to beat in time with the steady rub Newt makes with his thumb across my wrist.

Slowly, the helicopter carries us up, away from the Maze and into the sunlit world.

…

It's in some kind of empty car lot outside an old building that we finally touch down again.

It could be a travel inn or hotel, but without any real idea of what those things are anymore, I couldn't easily say. Night is drawing in; the sky darkening into a velvet cloak of navy blue.

The man – who drifted to sleep for much of the flight – wakes as we land, and turns to us while the pilot kills the engine.

The blades still spin above us with a noise that I no longer fully register after hours of it.

"Everyone inside the minute I open this door," the man says, nodding through the window to the low lying building. "No questions; time for them later."

He hauls open the side of the helicopter, and the panel slides back with a metallic grinding sound.

Thomas leaps out first, Minho right behind him. Newt follows, guiding me down as he's still holding my hand. Stan is right at my back as we run across the empty lot.

We pile up in the hallway where a handful more people are waiting for us.

It certainly feels a bit like an underground rescue operation.

The man who flew with us comes in last, shutting us all in the hallway. Outside the sound of the helicopter blades rising and then growing distant tells me that our transport has left.

We're all herded through to a room that looks like a dormitory in a boarding school or an orphanage – or at least, how I'd imagine one to look.

Bunk beds line the walls, and stand down the middle of the room, too. The bedding is fresh and on each pillow is a folded towel and some form of night clothes.

"Find a bed boys. And girls," one of the men says. He gives a little smile to Teresa and I. "Showers are at the end of the hall. We'll get you some food in here while you clean up."

There's a flurry of activity as he leaves. That is, if a flurry of activity can be weary at the same time.

Dan throws himself onto the nearest bunk, face first and lets out a possibly contented sound. Lee climbs onto the bed above him and stretches to reach the towel. Frankie and Winston both sit on the same bed and have a silent staring moment, before Frankie stands and throws his knife and pack onto the bunk overhead.

Slowly, boys head down the hall, carrying their towels and night clothes.

I sink onto an unclaimed bed; a bottom bunk with stiff sheets that's cast into shadow against a wall. And slowly – now beginning to realise how much all my muscles ache – I shrug out of the collection of straps over my head.

I drop my satchel first, and then unbuckle the leather scabbard. There are just six arrows now. The one that got broken in half will probably always lie on that stone walkway in the Maze.

I pull the elastic string of my bow to remove that, too, and it makes a splintering sound.

_No._

It's stupid to be attached to it. I know that. I always knew it was not a long-lasting weapon.

And yet, it still hurts a little.

There's a long vertical split down the wood on one of the arms, from nearly the end right down to the wrapped leather where I grip it. Looking at it now, I can vaguely remember a cracking noise when I stabbed the Griever.

I pull gingerly on the string, and both arms flex backwards.

I watch the split travel another inch towards the tapered end and let it go.

I may be able to wrap it up with bandages, but a good couple of fires and it'll still break.

I cast it aside, laying it at the end of the bunk, and forcing myself to let go of the small knot of sadness in my chest.

I pull the tiny knife from my boot again, and scoot myself backwards to lean against the wall. I absorb myself in using my sleeve to try cleaning the black stain from the steel as the other boys settle their own things and start organising themselves.

The sound of running water doesn't stop for over forty minutes as everyone disappears in shifts. They return looking so clean it's hard to recognise them.

Finally, I scoop up the towel and set of clothes on the pillow of my bunk and head off when Jack comes back in a dark blue pyjama set.

After months of it, I've gotten so used to sharing a shower block with the boys, that it doesn't bother me in the slightest any more. The spray is actually warm, not the tepid stream I'm used to. I feel long-wound up muscles start to relax as the water swirling down the drain goes from red and brown and black and starts to run clear.

I take a bit of time, scrubbing the soap into my skin and hair, gently checking my scrapes and allowing myself to get rid of the tears that have been held back all day.

The cries choke me up and tear me apart from the inside out.

For the dead, for the ones left behind, for the ones who did make it, for the answers we still don't have, and for the long way to go. It all hurts; a searing kind of pain.

The shower masks my sobs. The tears mix with the water and get washed down the drain, leaving me feeling a little broken, but a little fixed, too.

I towel dry, standing in the stall. It takes a while, since most of my body feels like a walking bruise. I've pulled muscles in my legs, my arms, my shoulders and between my ribs in just the last twenty four hours.

Finally, I leave the towel with the other used ones in a hamper, leave my damp hair loose to dry and pull on the fresh clothes. There's baggy flannel pyjama bottoms that I have to knot so they don't slide off my hips and a t-shirt with sleeves that fall to my elbows. It feels foreign to be wearing something so soft that smells like laundry detergent.

I think a piece of me misses the smell of the woods that would linger in clothes washed in the Glade.

Back in the room, food has arrived.

I can barely eat a few mouthfuls of the fast food assortment before I'm moving away and crawling towards the bed against the far wall where my bow rests across the blankets.

The sheets are stiff and cold; the mattress flat. As far as I remember, I've only ever slept in a hammock. I'm exhausted but I curl under the blankets feeling strange, unable to relax.

The last time I fell asleep, Newt was with me.

He's sitting up with Thomas, Minho and Frypan, leaning against Fry's bunk as some of the boys pick at what's left of the food. Some of them, like me, have already gone to their beds.

With my eyes resting on Newt, sleep comes easily. But so do the nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO
> 
> 1\. That little moment where one of the boys just very quietly lets Minho take his spear is actually in the film, and when I saw that, I just loved it. I think it says such a lot about everything these kids have seen and endured. Each of those boys is perceptive enough to see a volatile situation in an instant, they're also quick to work out who's best equipped to deal with it, and then they're able to band together and wordlessly communicate and collaborate for a single purpose. I just got so much out of that tiny moment where that spear trades hands, and I had to draw a bit of attention to it.
> 
> 2\. This moment when they fly above the Maze and just see it spread out beneath them...I found something hauntingly powerful in that. That Glade was all they knew, and while it was a prison, it had also been their sanctuary - it had sustained them for years. But to fly up over it like that, its heartbreaking, in a way, to really appreciate for the first time that your whole world is so very small. And to see the Maze wrapped around it, too...this Maze destroyed and took so many lives, it was a living nightmare for all Gladers; an impossible, insurmountable task. And to simply look down on it and realise it wasn't even that big...those are the kind of truths that hurt.
> 
> 3\. Whether Eva truly starts to have a panic attack here, I'll leave for you. I've had them before, but a long time ago and I don't remember them too well afterwards, so trying to describe one isn't too easy for me. But this kind of realisation is a very different thing than everything else Eva has come to terms with. She accepted that the possibility of her dying was a reasonable one. But this kind of fear comes from surviving, and then having no idea how to live in the world you now exist in.
> 
> 4\. Her bow. Sadly, I always planned for this to be it's fate. It was never going to last long, but more importantly, I felt that having a literal break was nice symbolism for a lot of what's happened in the last few chapters, if not the whole story.


	32. A Heartbeat for a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are whispers and heartbeats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is it, folks. The end. Its been a crazy journey and thank you to everyone who's stuck it through. I will be posting a chapter after this as an afterword and acknowledgements and I'll also answer any extra questions there, too. Expect that in a few days.
> 
> ALSO: The first chapter of the Companion Series has been posted! You can find it through my profile as 'The Eden Switch Companion Series' (original, I know) so please check it out if you're interested (as it's me, there are some preliminary notes, too) and do follow that if you want to get alerts for further one shots :)
> 
> End notes in chapter text again due to length. Really sorry about that, guys.

I start awake when the sky is barely light. It's still dark outside; there's no light filtering in through the drawn curtains.

My heart slows down as I sit under the warm blankets but I can't settle again, and it's not the flash of the Griever's wide mouth or the dead bodies in the W.C.K.D compound that morph into Newt, Frypan, Dan and the others that are responsible.

My bed doesn't move.

I miss the swaying motion of the hammock. I miss the sound of the leaves rustling just through the branch walls. I even miss the sound of distant groaning from the Maze, though I choose to put this down to missing what is familiar, rather than any of those things themselves.

With the windows dark and all the lights off, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust enough to pick out shapes in the room around me. I can hear the rustling of the stiff sheets from more than a few beds; boys sleeping fitfully, probably plagued with memories and nightmares that bleed into one another.

Opposite my bunk, one of the beds standing down the centre of the huge room, I can see the dark shadow of Minho's running harness resting on the floor. One of his arms is flung over the edge of the mattress, twitching like he's dreaming of still running.

Sitting up, I can see that the bunk neighbouring mine – they're lined head to foot down the wall – is where Newt sleeps. His wiry arms cradle the pillow and shadows slide between his shoulder blades, the sheets low across his back.

I'm so used to coping alone – I prefer it that way – but a part of me that I'm not prepared for wants to go to him. I want to press into his warmth, like an echo of the past night in the hammock.

But more than that, I don't want to wake him. None of us have slept well lately.

I throw aside the blankets, grab my satchel and tiptoe out of the room.

The hall beyond is much darker, but I just sneak down to the end where there's a large window.

It isn't locked.

No one is around, so I push over the catch and slide it up.

A rush of warm air blows in and I feel something settle within me.

Somehow I think my liking for the outdoors isn't just about my time in the Glade. I was raised in the country. I think that's what my file back at the compound said. Maybe this is a whisper of who I used to be.

I sink to the floor where I can feel the breeze drift across me, and absently open my satchel. The things I packed are still there, and I'm glad they weren't needed. Bandages, needles in packets, gauze pads and Clint's anaesthetic mix are all pulled out.

We should probably compile all our supplies in the morning; see what we have and sort it all. Heck knows what's coming next.

But there's still a shape in the bag, and as soon as I tug out the supple leather book, I know what it is.

Newt must have put it in there early in the morning before I woke up.

It's bound closed with the leather strap, but the pencil is pressed between the pages, marking one of them off with an open teardrop shape.

I don't know if I should, but he showed it to me before, and the curiosity burns.

I unwind the strap and let the book fall open.

I stop breathing.

That's me.

The sketch is made with soft strokes, my loose hair rendered in a dark spill across the blankets, body curved in the cradle of the hammock. And though the fabric folded in where Newt had been there's an echo of him in the way he's drawn the shadows in the space beside me.

Written in the corner, slanted and light, are words.

_I couldn't let this be forgotten, either._

My breath rushes out with the ghost of a laugh.

I think, from the words he wrote on the page, that he meant me to see it, but there's a strange feeling that comes with seeing yourself through someone else's eyes.

I remember what he said when he first showed me the book; he only ever drew the people who were lost in the Glade, so they wouldn't be forgotten.

Quickly, before I can rethink it, I pick up the pencil. I can't remember writing anything before. The tip scratches gently on the paper, the words coming out loopy.

_It won't be. I'm still here._

I drop the pencil back into the seam and press the book closed, wind it shut and bury it back in the bag.

As I do, my fingers brush across something cold.

My mind freezes. My heart pounds. The book is pushed to the back of my thoughts in the place of this new, overwhelming one.

I yank out the shallow tin, suddenly short of breath – though this is nothing like in the helicopter.

I'd never had a panic attack before; that I remember, anyway. I hadn't even realised I'd worked myself into one until it was too late. I feel a little guilty that Newt ended up having to calm me down, when I knew he'd lost so much more in the Maze.

But I push the thought aside as I force open the tin.

There, sitting inside it, is the syringe gun I used on myself months ago. It's a little silver thing with a stubby barrel and dimpled handle, with the empty cartridge still loaded just above the trigger.

And I'm seeing it with new eyes as my mind reels back to Newt's file on the computer.

_Compromised._

This gun won't work; the syringe isn't right, nor is the needle, and you couldn't really use a gun anyway, but it doesn't need to work. It just needed to give me the idea.

A blood transfusion.

That's how to turn Compromised into Immune.

The hope burns fierce and strong in my chest.

Right now, hope is all I need. I'll take it.

_And I'm a universal donor._

…

"Eva?"

I look up, nearly dropping the gun in my hands. It feels like such a long time since I've heard anyone say my name and they weren't shouting it in terror.

Newt stands just outside the door of the dormitory. He's in long cotton pants and a loose t-shirt, too – though both of his fit better – and his hair is back to its light, honey blonde shade now that most of the grime and blood has been washed out.

He's always been a good looking guy, but the way I feel about him isn't really about that. It's always been about who he is; the good and the bad, and right now, that he came after me, my name sounding intimate in a way I'm not used to when he whispers it into the night.

My heart skips.

"Hey," I say quietly.

He ambles down the hall towards me, the limp more severe than I've seen it before. It alarms me more than I'd have been able to admit back in the Glade. But out here…it feels a little safer to feel for him so much.

Not that I ever really had a say in it.

My heart started to care before I could think to protect it.

"Are you okay?" I can't help the question spilling out.

He frowns in confusion, then his eyes clear. He knows what I'm worried about. "Oh. Yeah. It's a bit worse when I'm tired or when I've been running on it. It'll be…well, back to normal in a day or so."

I nod, lost for words.

I slide the gun back into its tin and shut it before Newt reaches me. I will have to tell him about what I think I know, and how I think I can fix it, but it can wait for now. We're both still tired.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks. But before I can answer, his eyes skip to the satchel at my side; the supplies I've been organising. "Are you _leaving_?"

There's suddenly an odd mix in his voice of something broken and furious.

I feel my eyes widen.

" _No_!" I say, and the hushed exclamation echoes in the hallway.

I watch the breath rush out of him. After all this time, it's easy to see the relief for what it is.

In the interest of honesty, though…"I've thought about it," I say. And it's true. In the helicopter, coming back from the panic attack, it did cross my mind.

"Why?" there's something hard and wrecked in the single word.

Newt rarely gets worked up. He's always been the level headed one, but right now he sounds annoyed. Upset. Confused.

I can't really blame him. It was just this morning that I told him I wanted to keep him with me.

"It was just one of those crazy things that crosses your mind," I try to reassure him, shrugging helplessly. "Because I was switched over. I was never meant to be a part of this group. I don't even think I was meant to survive. I found my file, Newt; when you were watching that video. But don't worry…it was a crazy thought anyway, and I was freaking out. Where the hell would I even go?"

He sighs, and then drops down next to me. He patiently puts all the supplies back in the satchel and then moves it out of my reach.

"Bloody hell," he mutters. He picks up my hand; threads our fingers together. "Nowhere," he says. " _Don't go anywhere_."

The words feel weighted. Like they've been substituted for something else, and it feels like a knot forms deep inside me – one I can't undo that will keep me tethered to him from this moment forwards.

It's a comforting feeling; not one that makes me anxious or scared. And it's a fleeting sensation; a tie that I know is there but is freeing in its nature.

I lean into him, and his arm curls around me. Automatic. Easy.

Warmth pulses through my veins. I can feel his heart beating under my cheek; fast and sure.

"Not planning on it," I say. My voice is soft, the words heavy. "This is where I want to be."

And it's truer than even I'd been prepared for.

Newt's breath catches. I think I feel the faintest of smiles as he breathes a gentle kiss onto my hair.

There's bound to be places that are safer or happier; places that have answers or cures. Somewhere out there, we may have families still. But I don't know anything but this, and the only family I remember is the one I have now.

And I'm not willing to trade any of them away for something I might have had before.

The silence of the very early hours is like a blanket. It keeps away the fears, the worries and the troubles and just leaves us in the shadows under the window where even nightmares can't follow.

Newt turns our hands over, and the faint, waning moonlight catches the pale scar line across my palm.

Ironic. The wound that would help me discover a possible solution to Newt's non-immunity would heal as a clean, silvery scar right through the life line of my hand.

Maybe that's a good thing.

It has to be.

Because I'm realising that it doesn't matter who I might have been before; or that I have no memories of that person. I made my own memories, as the person I am now.

And I do have a home.

Sometimes a home isn't four walls; sometimes its laughter, and tears and heartbeats.

I laughed, cried, celebrated and suffered with the Gladers. I made friendships that couldn't be touched by death. Zart, Frypan, Dan, Clint, Jeff, Chuck – all of them. Those were my choices.

The Glade wasn't home. It's the people that make the home.

Newt.

_Finding a home in someone is a choice.  
_

And I made mine a long time ago.

* * *

* * *

**Curious Questions**

1\. What was your favourite chapter/moment of the whole story (and why?)

2\. What was your favourite chapter title (and why?)

**INFO**

1\. I feel it's important here that Eva realises and accepts there are things about the Glade that she misses. I guess you can see it as a form of stockholm. She's very aware she was forced to be there, that she had no choice, that there was no escape and that it was a prison. And yet, especially given that it was all she ever knew, just the lifestyle of it (which is a main element to this story as a whole) becomes what is familiar. So while she wouldn't miss being imprisoned and observed, its easy to miss the sensations of the hammock, the smell of the woods, the way the light filters through the huts, and so much more. It's human nature to cling to what you know.

2\. Newt's book. I always knew he was going to put it in Eva's bag. And about halfway through the story, I thought he might spend the morning, before she woke up, drawing her. Maybe afraid she would die, or that he would - you can interpret that how you like. But I love this idea that Eva would find it after the fact. The drawings were something close to Newt, and as Eva recognises, I think there's something strange and intimate in seeing yourself the way someone else does.

3\. A Blood transfusion. Someone actually commented on this in a review, but all I can say is this was planned this way from near the start (and yes, she will tell him. That's not even a question for her). Its one of the most realistic, logical explanations, and also one of the most doable ones, considering the world is basically post-apocalyptic at this point. So lots of little bits had to occur just to plant this idea for Eva - the syringe gun, Newt's head wound, her own hand injury, her mother being a doctor, her blood type, and Newt being compromised. And if the sequel pans out, as I hope it will, a blood transfusion, immunity, and her past life all have some major roles and themes.

4\. The abandoned hotel. This is a lot of creative licence. I remember skim reading this part of the book ages ago, but that's all. Obviously the film ends without showing you where they land the chopper, so I just went with my first general impression. So the girls aren't split from the boys, and it's described a little differently. The second movie - based on the trailer - looks like it might be a bit different from the book version again, so all I can say is I will be working to tie it all together neatly if more comes :)

5\. Okay, something that's really important for me. There are no 'I love you's in this story. There is one, said in a very platonic, open way, by Zart, a long way back. But none in terms of romantic attachment and that was a very deliberate choice on my part. I feel like its a phrase and a notion that is thrown about an awful lot and way too easily in fiction. I personally believe that its far better to show and imply love with actions and choices that a character makes, rather than avid declarations. Words can lie, actions often do not. I think that if you, as a reader, need an 'I love you' to know that yes, in fact, these two characters love each other, you've done something wrong as an author. Personal opinion.

So, I wanted to write a story that has none of that. And not just because I feel that they're words too easily used. Also because I feel like neither Eva or Newt would say it - at least not now. Both of them are still worried about tomorrow, scared for each other and new to being in a relationship. They're new to feeling this way and have no reference for it, either. I think, for them, the bigger declarations come in saying other things - like their conversation in the hut before all this. Wanting each other indefinitely, I think, is a bigger deal for them than words that they don't truly understand.

Are they in love? Maybe. Yes. No. I kind of want to leave this up to you until the sequel (should it happen). However you want to view it is fine and I'd love to hear your thoughts. I know how I personally view it, and I'll share that if you're interested :)

6\. Finally, then, the open ending. I recognise that the very open feeling to this (also, possibly, the lack of love declarations) may hit wrong with some of you, but again, this was a deliberate choice. Even if I don't write a sequel and this is all there ever is, Eva's life doesn't finish with this story. I like epilogues and I love ones that jump ahead to the future to close things up, but that's not possible right now. Because there's so much story left to tell, the only way to really end this was openly. That said, its just Eva's life that's still open and unknown. The main themes and plot elements that carried this story have concluded and tied up, so while this ending is ready to pick up again, another story will start with a new plot, new focus and new themes.

Its an open end, but I hope you have all the answers you wanted. And any left, feel free to ask me! Any niggly bits left unanswered is one of the reasons I'll be posting an afterword next week.

And now I'm shutting up before I get sentimental. Final word on the story next week. Thanks to everyone for sticking with this, hope you enjoyed the last chapter and hope you stick around for the Afterword :)


	33. Afterword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The end, then. Thanks for enjoying the ride with me, Guys. And sorry for the long delay on this. Its been a busy couple of weeks, and I was hoping to have a couple more things done before posting, but life is not cooperating. Enjoy the last word :)

**Acknowledgements**

So, firstly, I think I need to give a huge mention to James Dashner, who – of course – wrote the novel on which this story is based. And right up there with him, is Wes Ball, who directed and envisioned the film adaptation of that world, which is the version I chose to base my story in.

The next shout out is to one of my English teachers from way back in secondary school. I loved English in school, and I've always loved writing, but that one teacher said a number of things that have stuck with me over time and really helped to shape the way I think about writing and telling a story.

I need to do a mention for my puppy, who was around fourteen months old when this was actually being written. She was going through her first season and had to spend around a month cooped up in the kitchen and dining room of my house while it passed. Her being cooped up meant I had to keep an eye on her, and that meant I had a full month of doing very little else but working, sleeping and writing this story. Sitting on the same chair for hours at a time meant I could really get stuck in.

A mention should go to my cousin – she knows who she is – with whom I shared the first five or so chapters before they were posted. Her encouraging feedback definitely helped keep my Muse in place long enough to finish.

And of course, a huge mention to every single one of you guys, whether you favourited, bookmarked, alerted or reviewed, or whether you just kept coming back to read it. A story is nothing without someone to read it, so each and every one of you has been invaluable.

 

**Afterword**

The Idea

So…It all really started when I discovered, on a TV advert that Maze Runner was being released on DVD and Blu Ray TOMORROW.

What?

I was sure it was due out in the Cinemas in the next week or so.

But no. Basically, I'd entirely missed the cinema period (how is still very beyond me). But I think that can only be a good thing, given just how many times I watched the film back to back for the first two weeks I owned it.

Yes, I bought it the day it was put on shelves.

A week later I knew most of the movie back to front. A week after that, I knew almost all the dialogue by heart. And within a month, I was completely fascinated with the concept of Glade life.

And it was that fascination that sparked this story.

The Process

I felt there was a whole story left to tell that Dashner had completely skipped over by the time Thomas was introduced, so that's where I started. And the rest you all know.

I wrote the bulk of the story in three weeks, practically without a pause, doing hours in a single sitting. (And just so we're clear, my Muse is an awfully flighty bugger and I've never finished a full length story before. I'm notoriously hopeless to the extent I decided some time ago that just doing one shots was the best way forward). But this has been a massive exception.

I barely wrote down any notes and I literally just kept typing, coasting through events that I knew in my head I wanted to happen. There were also many, many repeat watchings of the film itself to keep the environment and characters constant and present in my mind. It helped a lot when I struggled with how some characters might speak. And there was a lot of research through the Maze Runner Wiki to fill in what the movie left out.

At the end of those three weeks, I had around 84,000 words, a finished draft and 250 pages; an outrageously disliked number in this fandom.

And then began the tweaking.

With the first handful of pages ready, I started posting on the tenth of March.

And I'd continue to post a chapter twice a week after that, with a lot of tweaking as I went.

Bits got reworded, some things were taken out and a lot of scenes were added in, as I felt bits were missing, either for pacing, world building, character development, or hooks for later plot elements. But the main things stayed the same.

At the time of finishing the story, and posting the last chapter – on the twenty-first of June (wow) – it is 107,297 words and 329 pages. Not only a much happier number, but also longer than the actual Maze Runner novel, which comes in at just over 101,000 words.

And with all the little tie ins and hints and the many dynamics at the core of the story, I'm really proud of what it became. Far more than I expected to be.

Eva

Eva's character came to mind as soon as I was struck with the idea of telling a story about the Glade itself.

'Girl in the Glade' is overdone, perhaps, but I think it lends itself to a great story when done right, and that's what I aimed for. Whether I succeeded will always be up to the audience. I wanted to write from a first person perspective and explore the possibilities and limitations that come with that. I just find females easier to write that way than I do males. Plus, Newt was a clear favourite of mine, and the complexity to him really fascinates me so I wanted to explore another layer to him with a romantic relationship.

Not long after deciding the story would belong to a girl, the idea for her purpose there started to form. I knew it had to fit and be realistic on a number of levels – it had to make sense for WCKD as part of a science experiment, mainly. And working with that helped to shape her backstory and bring about the side project of the Eden Switch.

To help give you an idea of this: Eva was – in the very, very early days (like the first two days of writing) going to be called Eleanor. But in the end, it just didn't sit right, and as I started to dig deeper, everything just fell into place. Girls in Group B were said to have more biblical names, while boys of Group A were named for famous inventors and men of science. Eva, as well as fitting the Biblical theme for which she'd been originally intended, also matched Adam, which is where the concept of a switch developed. So…I knew about the Switch, and why it had been done and a decent amount of Eva's previous life that made her right for it all before she learned her name in the second chapter of the story.

That's how early some of those big elements were planned.

And all I can say is that the things she knew before and the things she's learned since still have significance to come, should her story continue.

It took me a long time to find a faceclaim for her that I was even partially happy with. I've gone through lists upon lists of brunette women and actresses. None of them fit how I see her perfectly, and I'll always see her the same in my head, but for those of you interested, I decided her faceclaim is Zoey Deutch. I know the eyes are the wrong colour, but I'm thinking in overall terms – face shape/structure/complexion etc. She's as close as I've found :)

The World

The Glade, prison though it was, supported a full length novel. It's a very small space for so much to happen. You could liken it to a TV show taking place on a single set, like an apartment.

How many shows do that?

Not many. Most shows will have at least a few sets to move the characters around and keep things interesting. I personally find a fascination with shows that can still deliver in limited space. If anyone knows of the TV show 'My Family' one of their Christmas special episodes literally happened in a single train/tube carriage when it broke down.

Yes, the Glade is bigger than a train carriage, but hopefully you get the point.

It's not a big world. It's smaller than Hogwarts, or The Shadowhunter Downworld, or Camp Half Blood or District 12 and so many other places. Not in terms of literal square footage, but in terms of space to move and tell a story.

Take Hogwarts. In the books or the films, how many aspects of that castle did you see? Hagrid's hut, the forest, the gates, the lake, the Pitch, the grounds, the Willow, the entrance hall, the Great Hall, each of the classrooms, at least two of the common rooms, the dorms, numerous corridors and hidden passages, the roof, teacher's offices, dungeons…and still more.

In the Glade, you tend to have the Doors, The field, the Deadheads and Homestead. They can be broken down a bit more; the Kitchen, the Butchery, the Infirmary and the Gardens, even the Hammock huts…but places for the story to be told are far fewer than in most stories. At least, that's how I see this - as always, how you see it is up to you.

But it's that very small, contained nature of the world in the film that really intrigued me. Not just that it was so small – that alone isn't so amazing. What makes it amazing is that such a small, confined place was the entire world to more than fifty boys who had no memories of anything else and had to make a life there.

The Family

And of course, at the very centre of this was the many, many dynamics between the characters. I've said a lot on this before, so I'll keep it short.

I wanted to write a real story about characters who are very real and very human. None of them are perfect. None are evil. Each of them have the capacity for good and bad and all of them are complex. Writing so many people who have all found a family in each other was one of the primary joys of writing this, for me.

And I think that's most of the things I really wanted to say (though I'm sure I'll think of more as soon as I post this).

 

**Other Updates and Information**

A Sequel

I know a lot of you are hopeful for this. All I can say right now is that I would love to continue this story, but I don't know that I will just yet. I've mentioned it before to many of you, but in the interest of being abundantly clear:

1\. I have some ideas for where I want Eva's story to go, and I have to see the film before I can work out if my plot ideas will mesh with the canon timeline. If they don't…well I need to have a think on some things.

2\. I was unnaturally motivated when writing this, and thankfully, things came together so that I actually had plenty of time to do so. It's not always the case. I will need time and inspiration to write a sequel. My Muse is flighty at the best of times, but even if she sticks around, I'm hoping to move house before Christmas, which will eat up time.

Hopefully I will be able to let you all know around September if I'm going to attempt a sequel, but it will be longer before it's actually shared.

Until then…

The Eden Switch Companion Series

The first chapter of this is posted and more will follow as I get them written and proofed. All the one-shots are a little disconnected, told through various points of view and all the events take place during the Eden Switch story.

The second chapter is halfway written and I'm still open to suggestions on scenes you'd like to see through other eyes, though many of the favourites have been added to my list already.

The series is complementary only, and you do not have to read it for anything in the main story to make sense. The single chapters are purely an extra insight should you want them.

Eden Switch AUs

The first chapter of this series will be posted soon. It will be posted on fanfiction, Ao3, and also, possibly, on my Tumblr account, so keep an eye out!

Again, these are all unrelated and done mainly for fun, for those of you who like AU stories, and aren't quite ready to let go of the characters yet (or my versions of them, at least). I'm open to suggestions with this, but no promises that everything you throw forwards will be done. You can comment/review or submit an ask to my tumblr with prompts or ideas if you want to share them.

All of these stories will also be one-shots. They may be in made up worlds, or in other fandoms. The characters will all be, at the core, the same as my interpretations you see in Eden Switch, but due to their different setting/situations/backstories, you'll get to see other parts of them.

Tumblr

On Tumblr I'm 'Seaselkie' and I'm aiming to reblog some character questions/headcanons and so on, so that if any of you have extra questions you'd like answered, you're welcome to send them into my ask box there.

I accept anonymous asks, so you don't need an account to contact me. You will just need to keep an eye on my blog page so you can read the answer, which I'll have to make public. Alternately, I'm happy to e-mail replies if you provide an address.

I'd also like to post some gifsets when I can work them out properly, so you can look out for those in the future, too.

DeviantArt

I'm an artist as well as a writer – that's how I like to see myself. So I actually post a lot of my own drawings and paintings on dA. I'm Tattered-dreams over there, if anyone is at all interested in checking it out. I mainly do equine/horse related art, but I have been expanding into human and other animal subjects over the last few years.

I have almost finished some concept drawings of Eva from this story and they will be posted there when they're done, for anyone interested in that. They're single full body designs spanning from her arrival through to the night after their 'rescue' and even a bonus image of a costume design for the potential sequel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: That's all, folks! I'll let you know what's happening around September. Until then, hope you enjoy the one shot series :)


End file.
